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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



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.J THE 

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I Early Poems 

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' Oliver Wendell Holmes 



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WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

Nathan Haskell Dole 



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^£ NEW YORK j 






8^850 



Copyright, 1899, 
By T. Y. CROWELL & COMPANY. 



CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM 

THE FOLLOWING 

METRICAL ESSAY 

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 



THE AUTHOR TO THE PUBLISHERS. 

I THANK you for the pains you have taken to 
bring together the poems now added to this 
collection ; one of them having been acciden- 
tally omitted and the existence of the others for- 
gotten. So many productions which bear the 
plain marks of immaturity and inexperience have 
been allowed to remain, because they were in the 
earlier editions, that a few occasional and care- 
less stanzas may be added to their company 
without any apology. I have no doubt you are 
right in thinking that there is no harm in allow- 
ing a few crudities to keep their place among the 
rest ; for, as you suggest, the readers of a book 
are of various ages and tastes, and what sounds 
altogether schoolboy-like to the author may be 
very author-like to the schoolboy. Some of the 
more questionable extravagances to be found in 
the earlier portion of the volume have, as I learn, 



vi PREFACE, 

pleased a good many young people; let us call 
these, and all fhe others that we have outgrown, 
Juvenile Poems, but keep them, lest some of the 
smaller sort that were, or are, or are to be, should 
lament their absence. I thought of mentioning 
the date at which the several poems were written, 
which would explain some of their differences ; 
but the reader can judge them nearly enough, 
perhaps, without this assistance. 

To save a question that is sometimes put, it is 
proper to say that in naming two of the poems 
after two of the Muses, nothing more was in- 
tended than a suggestion of their general char- 
acter and aim. In a former note of mine (which 
you printed as a kind of preface to the last 
edition), I made certain explanations which I 
thought might be needed ; but as nobody seems 
to have misinterpreted anything, we will trust our 
book hereafter to itself, not doubting that what- 
ever is good in it will redeem and justify the rest. 

Boston, January 13, 1849. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Oliver Wendell Holmes xi 

Poetry; a Metrical Essay . . . . • i 
Cambridge Churchyard • • • • • ^5 
Old Ironsides 25 

Notes • • • •43 

LYRICS. 
The Last Reader •.•••. 49 

Our Yankee Girls 52 

La Grisette ' . -54 

An Evening Thought 56 

A Souvenir 58 

"Qui vive!" .61 

The Wasp and the Hornet .... 63 
From a Bachelor's Private Journal . . 65 

Stanzas • .67 

The Philosopher to his Love • ... 69 

L'inconnue 71 

The Star and the Water Lily . • • • 72 

Illustration of a Picture 75 

The Dying Seneca 78 

vii 



viii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A Portrait 80 

A Roman Aqueduct 82 

The Last Prophecy of Cassandra , . , 84 

To A Caged Lion 87 

To MY Companions . . . . , .89 

The Last Leaf 91 

To A Blank Sheet of Paper . . , -94 

To AN Insect 97 

The Dilemma 100 

My Aunt 103 

The Toadstool . 106 

The Meeting of the Dryads .... 108 

The Mysterious Visitor 112 

The Spectre Pig 117 

Lines by a Clerk 123 

Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian . . .125 

The Poet's Lot 127 

Daily Trials 129 

Evening. — By a Tailor 132 

The Dorchester Giant 135 

To THE Portrait of "A Gentleman" . .138 
To THE Portrait of "A Lady" . . . .141 

The Comet 143 

A Noontide Lyric .147 

The Ballad of the Oysterman . . . . 149 • 

The Music-grinders 152 

The Treadmill Song 156 



CONTENTS, ix 

PAGE 

The September Gale . . . . . .158 

The Height of the Ridiculous . . . .161 

The Hot Season 163 



POEMS ADDED SINCE THE FH^ST 
EDITION. 

Departed Days 169 

The Steamboat 170 

The Parting Word 173 

Song 177 

Lines 179 

Verses for After-dinner 183 

vSONG .188 

The Only Daughter . ; . , . .190 

Lexington . . 194 

The Island Hunting Song 198 

Questions and Answers 200 

Song 202 

Terpsichore 205 



Urania: a Rhymed Lesson 218 

Notes 258 

The Pilgrim's Vision 261 

A Modest Request 268 

Nux Postccenatica ...... 280 



X CONTENTS, 

PAGE 

On Lending a Punch-bowl ..... 287 

The Stethoscope Song 292 

Extracts from a Medical PoexM . . • 297 

A Song of Other Days 301 

A Sentiment 304 

To an English Friend 306 

The Ploughman 308 

Pittsfield Cemetery 312 

AsTR^EA 319 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



Oliver Wendell Holmes, doctor, inventor, pro- 
fessor, wit, autocrat, and poet, was born on Tuesday 
the 29th of August, 1809. A sign of equality against 
that date with the prophetic prediction — pleasant — 
of the contemporary weather-prophet in an almanac 
refers to an entry made by the Rev. Abiel Holmes at 
the foot of the August page " = 29. Son b." The 
actual sands — not of time, but of the blotter — had 
not up to within a few years been shaken off: as 
Dr. Holmes wrote in a letter : ^' There the black 
sand glitters still." 

He was a descendant of John Holmes who settled 
in Woodstock, Connecticut, in 1686, set up a sawmill 
and fulling-mill and presented the town with its Com- 
mon. His son was a deacon, and that is all that is 
known of him ; his grandson a captain in the '' Old 
French War" and a surgeon in the Revolutionary 
War ; his great-grandson Abiel was a graduate of 
Yale, married a daughter of President Stiles, and was 
settled over a parish in Georgia. In 1791 he became 
minister of the First Congregational church in Cam- 
bridge, and ten years later married for his second wife 



xii LIFE OF 

Sarah Wendell, daughter of the Hon. Oliver Wendell 
of Boston. The Wendells were originally from Hol- 
land ; and Dr. Holmes, though he cared little for the 
details of genealogy, was inclined to be proud of the 
Dutch blood that flowed in his veins. Mrs. Holmes's 
maternal ancestry traced itself back through the Olivers 
to the early New England poetess, Anne Bradstreet, 
whose volume, " The Tenth Muse, lately sprung up 
in America," immortalized her by its title if not by its 
contents. She was a daughter of Governor Thomas 
Dudley. Dr. Holmes^s mother was the daughter of 
Dorothy Quincy, celebrated in the poem " Dorothy Q.," 
and her portrait, with the patched bayonet thrust made 
by the British soldier, used to hang in the Beacon 
Street dining-room — wretched as a work of art, but 
interesting and pathetic as a memorial. Thus Dr. 
Holmes had the imprescribable right to reckon himself 
in what he jestingly called '' the Brahmin Caste '' of 
New England. 

The old gambrel-roofed house in which he was born 
became the property of Harvard University after the 
death of Mrs. Sarah Holmes, and it was torn down, — 
"a case of justifiable domicide^'^ said Dr. Holmes, but 
to be deplored by all who love the memories of the 
past. 

As a little boy he went to Mrs. Prentiss's school, 
and always remembered her "long willow rod.*" 
From ten to fifteen he went to school to William 
Biglow at Cambridgeport, and then was sent to 
Phillips Andover Academy, probably with the hope 
that he would return there to study theology. His 



OLIVER IVENDELL HOLMES, xiii 

father's Connecticut Calvinism had been considerably 
modified by contact with the liberal ministers in the 
vicinity of Boston, and particularly by his marriage 
into the Wendell family. Dr. Holmes says in a brief 
autobiographical sketch that he had an old worn-out 
catechism as his text-book on the one hand, and a 
Unitarian atmosphere on the other as soon as he 
stepped out of his door. Instead of going to his 
father's college, he was sent to Harvard. 

He gives an amusing account of his boyish reading. 
He said he read few books through. One that he 
successfully mastered stood out as a triumph of 
thoroughness ; but generally he browsed in books. 
Rees's " Encyclopaedia " formed a considerable part 
of this ; he declares that he never read one sermon of 
his own accord, and though his father did his best to 
keep books of questionable teaching from him, he had 
"a kind of Indian sagacity in the discovery of con- 
trabrand reading." The narrowness and exclusive- 
ness of the teaching he found in the Rev. Thomas 
Scott's Family Bible waked him up more than any- 
thing to " the enormities of- the creed he represented," 
and " Pilgrim's Progress " " made the system of which 
it was the exponent more unreasonable and more 
repulsive instead of rendering it more attractive." 

A peep through the telescope on the Common also 
early served to alter his whole notion of the universe. 
He says all his human sentiments, all his religious 
beliefs, all his conception of his relation in space, 
seemed to undergo a change ; and he came to the 
conclusion that ^^this colony of the universe is an 



xiv LIFE OF 

educational institution so far as the human race is 
concerned," and on that theory henceforth he based 
his hope for himself and his fellow-creatures. 

He early began to "lisp in numbers," in imitation 
of Pope and Goldsmith, whose stately iambics always 
appealed to him. 

In one of his letters to his Andover classmate, 
Barnes, written in 1828 when he was in college, he 
describes himself as "a youth of low stature and an 
exceedingly smooth face," who wears his gills erect, 
courts his hair a little more carefully, buttons his coat 
a little tighter, who smokes " most devoutly," whose 
treble has broken down into a bass that he sings most 
unmusically, and whose literary bantlings, — in other 
words, his first poems, have been published in an 
Annual. At that time he was not certain what pro- 
fession he should choose, but was halting between 
" law and physick," since authorship seemed a trade 
not quite adapted to that meridian. In another letter 
to the same friend, he gives his height as five feet 
three inches, and calls himself lazy, and though not 
sedate, yet not dissipated. His rank placed him 
seventeen in his class — in the famous class of which 
he was the laureate for so many years. After Holmes 
graduated, in 1829, he entered the Law School, where 
he spent a year without much advantage, but succeeded 
in making a name for himself by his lyric protest 
against the destruction of " Old Ironsides." He wrote 
the poem in lead pencil on a scrap of paper, and it 
was published in the Daily Advertiser, and made such 
a stir that the Secretary of the Navy rescinded his 



OLIVER IVENDELL HOLMES. xv 

order and the frigate Coftstitiition still floats to this 
day, as a living proof of the power of poetry ! 

It is rather amusing, and also pathetic, to find 
Holmes lamenting what most intellectual young men 
have ever lamented, — that college was not giving 
him what he expected. " I will tell you honestly,^' 
he wrote, " I am sick at heart of this place, and 
almost everything connected with it." He yearned 
for "female companionship!" If only there was "a 
cherry-cheeked kitchen-girl to romance with, occa- 
sioiially," he cries; "but alas, nothing but vinegar- 
faced old maids and drawing-room sentimentalists ! " 
and he adds, " I do believe I never shall be contented 
till I get the undisputable mastery of a petticoat ! " 

The undergraduates had started a monthly, called 
The Collegian, and Dr. Holmes contributed several 
articles to the early numbers, among them the poems 
"The Dorchester Giant,'' "The Spectre Pig," and 
" Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian," all of which are 
still treasured by readers of Holmes. The year at the 
Law School was an experiment, and he was glad to 
exchange that profession for medicine. He studied 
for a time in the private school of Dr. James Jackson, 
then went to Paris, where he saw little outside hos- 
pitals and lecture-rooms. He afterward regretted 
not having taken pains to meet the great writers of 
the day. He regretted, also, that much of his time 
was frittered away in ill-directed study : but he at 
least learned "the uncertainties of medical observa- 
tion," and his mind was opened to every influence. 
He felt that France was half a century in advance of 



xvi LIFE OF 

England in science. He took a summer vacation in 
England and Scotland, but his heart was back at his 
work in the Paris hospitals. 

It was only by a struggle that he gained permission 
to complete his course. He rewarded himself for his 
hard work by a trip to Italy, and in December, 1835, 
after a long voyage of forty-three days landed in New 
York. 

He hung out his sign, and signified that the small- 
est favors or fevers were to be thankfully received, 
but he never succeeded in building up a large prac- 
tice. He set up a horse and chaise, but even that 
dignity did not offset his reputation as a wit and 
poet. He published a volume of verses in 1836: it 
contained " Old Ironsides" and "The Last Leaf," 
and also a lot of precious nonsense which was con- 
sidered incompatible — Dr. Holmes would have spelt 
it income-patible — with the gravity of a doctor's pro- 
fession. 

Nevertheless, he was appointed one of the physi- 
cians at the Massachusetts General Hospital, and in 
1838 was made Professor of Anatomy at Dartmouth 
College, and held the chair two years. 

In 1836, he wrote an essay for the Boylston prize, 
and won it. He was much pleased to have cut out 
a fifty-dollar prize under the guns of two old blazers, 
who had each swamped their competitors in preced- 
ing trials. 

The next year he got two more prizes ; and his 
" Essay on Intermittent Fever in New England," 
which summed up all that was then known of mala- 



OLIVER IVENDELL HOLMES. xvii 

ria, is still valuable, while his essay on the conta- 
giousness of puerperal fever i was epoch-making, and 
placed Dr. Holmes in the front rank of those who 
have benefited their fellow-men. He was bitterly 
assailed by the leading obstetricians of the country^ 
but he did not lose his temper, and his behavior 
under the bigoted attacks of this profession was noble 
indeed. "No man," he said, "makes a quarrel with 
me over the counterpane that covers a mother with her 
new-born infant at her breast." And with delightful 
wit, referring to the students that sided with their 
instructors, he called them " babes in knowledge, not 
yet able to tell the breast from the bottle, pumping 
away for the milk of truth at all that offers, were it 
nothing better than a professor's shrivelled forefinger." 

The necessity for isolating cases of this dreadful 
disease at last was recognized, and this step forward 
in the march of civilization was due to Dr. Holmes. 

In 1838, he wrote his friend Barnes that he had 
flirted and written poetry long enough, and wished he 
were married. In June, 1840, he made his selection 
from among ''several very nice young women" whom 
he " had in his eye," and became what he called a 
"hymeneal victim." He married Amelia Lee Jack- 
son, daughter of the Honorable Charles Jackson, 
Associate Justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of 
Boston. Her nephew gives her a most beautiful trib- 
ute in his life of Dr. Holmes. He says she had every 
estimable and attractive quality of mind and charac- 

1 Published in 1843 under the title, " Puerperal Fever as a 
Private Pestilence; " republished in pamphlet in 1855. 



xviii LIFE OF 

ter ; he calls her the kindest, gentlest, and tenderest 
of women, and declares that by her executive ability 
she contributed immensely to her husband's success, 
giving him every day " the fullest and freest chance 
to be always at his best, always able to do his work 
amid cheerful surroundings." 

He bought a house in Montgomery Place (now Bos- 
worth Street), and lived there eighteen years ; there his 
three children were born. In 1858 he went to Charles 
Street, and lived in a charming house on the " water- 
side" till 1870, when he moved to a much larger and 
handsomer house on Beacon Street, where, from his 
library, he seemed, as he said, ^' to look out on all 
creation — Bunker Hill and the spires of Cambridge 
and Mount Auburn, and the wide estuary commonly 
called Charles River." He lived there the rest of 
his life. He had also, for a time, a beautiful sum- 
mer home at Pittsfield, situated on Canoe Meadows, 
which, with nearly all the rest of the town, had once 
belonged to his Wendell ancestors. Here he spent 
seven of the happiest summers of his life, and planted 
a multitude of trees, of which he was very proud. 

In 1847 Dr. Holmes was appointed Parkman Pro- 
fessor of Anatomy and Physiology in the Harvard 
Medical School, and for thirty-five years held the 
position, which, referring to its multiplicity of func- 
tions, he called not a chair, but a whole settee. He 
was somewhat relieved of the work in 1871, when 
a separate chair of physiology was established. Dr. 
David W. Cheever says that as a lecturer he was 
accurate, punctual, precise, and unequalled in his 



OLIVER IVENDELL HOLMES. xix 

wealth of illustration, comparison, and simile. His 
wit was always flashing, but he could also be pathetic 
and serious. 

Dr. Holmes was one of the first American phy- 
sicians to make use of the microscope. He brought 
one home with him from Europe, and, as he had a nat- 
ural bent toward everything ingenious, he delighted 
in experimenting with it. It is rather odd that, with 
his advanced notions, he should have sided with the 
opponents of the measure to admit women to the 
Harvard Medical School. At the same time, he 
declared he was willing to teach women anatomy, 
provided they were by themselves, and had their 
own dissecting-room. And in 1871 he wrote that 
he was in favor of women in " woman's diseases and 
in midwifery." 

Dr. Holmes soon relinquished regular practice, and 
divided his time between his professorship and litera- 
ture. It was the day of the lyceum, and he was popu- 
lar as a lecturer. The trials of this wandering Arab 
life in these early days have been described by nearly 
all its victims ; only the hard necessity of earning 
extra dollars would have driven Holmes to it. He 
gave a course of twelve lectures on the English 
poets, and at the end of each he read some verses of his 
own. They were very kindly received. Dr. Holmes 
was almost fifty when the Atlantic was founded by 
Phillips, Samson, and Company, with James Rus- 
sell Lowell as its first editor, one stipulation of 
whose acceptance was that Dr. Holmes should be the 
first contributor to be engaged. Dr. Holmes had 



XX LIFE OF 

published in the short-lived IVew England Magazine 
of 1 83 1 -1 835 two papers under the title of " The Auto- 
crat of the Breakfast Table." As he expresses it, he 
determines to ^' shake the bough again and see if the 
ripe fruit were better or worse than the early wind- 
falls." 

It is rather remarkable that just as Dr. Holmes 
remained a willing prisoner in Boston all the days of 
his life — afraid of his enemy, asthma, which made 
travel difficult for him — so also he remained true to his 
allegiance to the Atlantic^ and confined nearly all his 
contributions to that monthly in spite of its transfer 
from publisher to publisher. 

His favorite poem, the one on which his reputation 
as a serious poet will largely rest, — "^The Chambered 
Nautilus " — appeared in the fourth paper of the " Au- 
tocrat." Whittier when he first read it exclaimed, 
"Booked for immortality." Most poets are remem- 
bered by one or two fortunate inspirations. Immor- 
tality hangs on a very tiny peg. 

But the fact that ninety-nine persons out of a hun- 
dred would choose "The Last Leaf" as the "^favor- 
ite' in the race for ^the Immortality Cup'" as Mr. 
Morse wittily puts it, shows that Holmes's repu- 
tation must rest mainly on his supremacy as the writer 
of what in default of a better term has been called 
vers de societe. 

Holmes was one of the early members of the famous 
Saturday or Atlantic Club, which some disgruntled 
outsider called "the Mutual Admiration Society." 
The list of members included Emerson, Hawthorne, 



OLIVER IVENDELL HOLMES, xxi 

Longfellow, Lowell, Motley, Sumner, Whither, and 
some dozens of others, most of whom were frequent 
or occasional contributors to the Atlantic. It is said 
that Holmes talked better than he wrote. What then 
must have been the brilliancy of his recluse brother 
John, of whom it was said that he outshone the 
autocrat. 

The " Autocrat" was followed in i860 by the " Pro- 
fessor of the Breakfast Table " and then, in 1871, after 
a silence of eleven years, came the " Poet." Mr. 
Morse says, " When the doctor undertook to compete 
with himself he met a formidable rival." And he 
adds with equal wisdom and humor, " The three 
volumes stand as the Breakfast Table Series, like 
the three successive pressings of the grapes from an 
illustrious vineyard." 

Dr. Holmes also wrote three novels : ^^ Elsie Venner 
(1861), a Romance of Destiny" with its — to many — 
disagreeable snake-motif; ^^The Guardian Angel" 
(1867), which was the best of the three ; and " A Mortal 
Antipathy," written in 1884, when his inventive facul- 
ties were on the wane. He also wrote three biogra- 
phies, — of Motley, of Dr. Jeffreys, and of Emerson, 
the last being the only one of real importance. His 
occasional poems are almost innumerable ; and rarely 
was an event of local interest, such as an anniversary, 
or a visit from a distinguished foreigner, allowed to 
pass without the little doctor chirping out an improv- 
isation, full of apt allusion and sparkling wit. Dr. 
Holmes^s attitude toward public questions is largely 
explained in a long letter which he wrote in 1846 to 



xxii LIFE OF 

Lowells Lowell had reproached him for not taking 
the right side regarding the Mexican War, Slavery, 
Temperance, and Reform in general. 

Dr. Holmes in reply declared that he could not shut 
his eyes to the beauty of heroism and self-devotion 
shown in battle, even in such a poor struggle as the 
Mexican War, and yet he felt a growing hate and dis- 
gust at that mode of settling national quarrels, and 
was willing to condemn it as a barbarous custom ; 
slavery yielded in his mind to the danger of disunion, 
and he desired to avert the catastrophe of civil war ; 
while he was ready enough to write convivial verses 
on occasion, he called attention to the fact that he 
was receiving a lower rent for a store on Long Wharf 
than he might have got had he been willing to have it 
used for a grocery where liquor would be sold. 

Only in religion was he not conservative ; in his 
theology he took an almost ultra-radical stand, which 
brought him after into controversy with his more 
bigoted contemporaries. 

But when the Civil War broke out, he quickly took 
his stand on the right side, and contributed his in- 
fluence and his eldest son to the crucial struggle. He 
even became a pronounced antislavery man. 

On December 3, 1879, occurred the celebration of 
Dr. Holmes's arrival at the Scriptural limit of life, and 
a brilliant breakfast at which Mr. W. D. Howells pre- 
sided was given in his honor. The next year he was 
made Doctor of Laws by Harvard. Three years later 
(with a sense of relief though not without regret), he 
resigned his professorship, after having held it for 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. xxiii 

thirty-five years, and looked forward to a period of 
leisure during which he might devote himself to his 
literary pursuits. He was made professor emeritus. 

After the death of Emerson, Dr. Holmes was se- 
lected to write his biography for the American Men 
of Letters series. It was an odd choice, because, al- 
though, as Mr. Morse says, the two men were bred 
from like stock, belonged to the same generation, lived 
amid the same surroundings, were both " engaged in 
knocking off the fetters of old thought and belief," yet 
they were a hemisphere apart from almost every point 
of view. Though he did his best to study Emerson 
dispassionately, and had known and respected him for 
years, the biography is not regarded as a very notable 
production, nor did it add to his reputation. 

In April, 1886, Dr. Holmes, accompanied by his 
daughter, Mrs. Turner Sargent, made a trip abroad 
which he shortly afterward described in his book en- 
titled "Our Hundred Days in Europe." It was the 
first time he had been in England since his student 
days, and now he returned something like a conquerer. 
Cambridge make him Doctor of Letters, Oxford made 
him D.C.L., and Edinburgh doubled his LL.D. 
Everywhere he was received with homage, and almost 
murdered with social attentions. ^ 

On his return to Boston he began his new series of 
papers, "Over the Tea-Cups," the title of which had 
occurred to him long before. It was most gratifyingly 
received, for he had felt doubtful whether the wintry 
products of his freezing wits, squeezed out "at three 
score and twenty," would meet acceptation. But the 



xxiv LIFE OF 

sap still flowed sweet and abundant and sparkling. 
There is little doubt that " The Broomstick Train " 
which appeared in this series was up to the level of 
the earlier whimsicalities-in-rime. In its book form it 
sold twenty thousand copies in the course of a few 
months. 

In 1888 Mrs. Holmes died; his dearest friend, the 
Rev. James Freeman Clarke, passed away that same 
year. The following April his daughter, Mrs. Sargent, 
who had come to take care of him in his declining 
days, also died. These bereavements were accom- 
panied by a darkening of his vision, caused by a 
slowly forming cataract which he himself discovered 
while using his microscope ; he called it " a cataract in 
a kitten state of developmient."" He faced the infirm- 
ity with characteristic cheerfulness, and while it affected 
his vision, it did not gloom his spirits. He was also 
growing deaf, but he wrote that " he took the labun- 
Uir aimi without many eheusl " 

He died on October 7, 1894, and as he had long 
before expressed a desire to be buried from King's 
Chapel, the funeral took place in that historic edifice. 

Thus ended the career of one who had made the 
world better and happier for his having lived in it. 
He had pro^d brilliantly that seriousness and lively 
humor were compatible in the same person, that the 
physician was not rendered less successful because he 
saw the comic side of life. He was local and provin- 
cial, but yet he raised his native Boston to be, in a 
very real sense, "the hub of the universe." 

He made the world happier and healthier by the 



OLIVER IVENDELL HOLMES. xxv 

pure and unalloyed wit which no one could resist ; 
but his serious contributions to literature and to 
science are scarcely less remarkable. 

His industry was indefatigable. He was always 
busy. His inventive mind, which so quickly saw the 
value of the microscope, quickly applied its principles 
to the little toy known as the stereoscope, which if he 
had patented it would have brought him a fortune. 
He knew the practical part of bookbinding ; he was a 
skilful photographer before the days when one had 
only to press the button and let the kodak do the 
rest ; he was authority on botany and arboriculture, 
and knew the dimensions of all the great trees of New 
England. He was fond of music, was always seen at 
the Symphony rehearsals, that weekly act of worship 
of all good Bostonians, and he taught himself to play 
the violin ; he made his own anatomical charts, and 
he was always ready to respond to all demands on his 
time and energies. 

Long will his memory be treasured by the English- 
reading world, and there is much in his works that 
will be read as literature when another century shall 
have been garnered by Father Time. 

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. 



POETRY; 
A METRICAL ESSAY. 



Scenes of my youth ! ^ awake its slumbering 

fire! 
Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre! 
Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear. 
Break through the clouds of Fancy's waning 

year; 
Chase from her breast the thin autumnal snow, 
If leaf or blossom still is fresh below! 

Long have I wandered; the returning tide 
Brought back an exile to his cradle's side; 
And as my bark her time-worn flag unrolled. 
To greet the land-breeze with its faded fold, 
So, in remembrance of my boyhood's time, 
I lift these ensigns of neglected rhyme; — 
1 



2 POETRY; 

O more than blest, that, all my wanderings 

through, 
My anchor falls where first my pennons flew! 



The morning light, which rains its quivering 

beams 
Wide o'er the plains, the summits, and the 

streams, 
In one broad blaze expands its golden glow 
On all that answers to its glance below; 
Yet, changed on earth, each far reflected ray 
Braids with fresh hues the shining brow of 

day; 
Now, clothed in blushes by the painted flowers. 
Tracks on their cheeks the rosy-fingered hours; 
Now, lost in shades, whose dark entangled 

leaves 
Drip at the noontide from their pendent eaves. 
Fades into gloom, or gleams in light again 
From every dew-drop on the jewelled plain. 

We, like the leaf, the summit, or the wave, 
Reflect the light our common nature* gave, 



A METRICAL ESSAY, 3 

But every sunbeam, falling from her throne, 
Wears, on our hearts, some coloring of our own ; 
Chilled in the slave, and burning in the free. 
Like the sealed cavern by the sparkling sea; 
Lost, like the lightning in the sullen clod, 
Or shedding radiance, like the smiles of God; 
Pure, pale in Virtue, as the star above, 
Or quivering roseate on the leaves of Love; 
Glaring like noontide, where it glows upon 
Ambition's sands, — the desert in the sun; 
Or soft suffusing o'er the varied scene 
Life's coinmon coloring, — intellectual green. 

Thus Heaven, repeating its material plan. 
Arched over all the rainbow mind of man; 
But he who, blind to universal laws. 
Sees but effects, unconscious of their cause, — 
Believes each image in itself is bright. 
Not robed in drapery of reflected light, — 
Is like the rustic who, amidst his toil. 
Has found some crystal in his meagre soil, 
And, lost in rapture, thinks for him alone , 
Earth worked her wonders on the sparkling 
stone, 



4 POETRY; 

Nor dreams that Nature, with as nice a line, 
Carved countless angles through the boundless 
mine. 

Thus err the many who, entranced to find 
Unwonted lustre in some clearer mind. 
Believe that Genius sets the laws at nought 
Which chain the pinions of our wildest 

thought ; 
Untaught to measure, with the eye of art. 
The wandering fancy or the wayward heart; 
Who match the little only with the less. 
And gaze in rapture at its slight excess, 
Proud of a pebble, as the brightest gem 
Whose light might crown an emperor's diadem. 

And, most of all, the pure ethereal fire, 
Which seems to radiate from the poet's lyre, 
Is to the world a mystery and a charm, 
An ^gis wielded on a mortal's arm. 
While Reason turns her dazzled eye away. 
And bows her sceptre to her subject's sway; 
And thus the poet, clothed with godlike state. 
Usurped his Maker's title — to create; 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 6 

He, whose thoughts differing not in shape, 

but dress, 
What others feel, more fitly can -express, 
Sits like the maniac on his fancied throne, 
Peeps through the bars, and calls the world 

his own. 

There breathes no being but has some pre- 
tence 
To that fine instinct called poetic sense; 
The rudest savage roaming through the wild, 
The simplest rustic, bending o'er his child. 
The infant listening to the warbling bird. 
The mother smiling at its half-formed word; 
The boy uncaged, who tracks the fields at large, 
The girl, turned matron to her babe-like 

charge ; 
The freeman, casting with unpurchased hand 
The vote that shakes the turrets of the land; 
The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted chain, 
Dreams of the palm trees on his burning plain; 
The hot-cheeked reveller, tossing down the 

wine, 
To join the chorus pealing "Auld lang syne'*; 



6 POETRY; 

The gentle maid, whose azure eye grows dim, 
While Heaven is listening to her evening 

hymn ; 
The jewelled beauty, when her steps draw near 
The circling dance and dazzling chandelier; 
E'en trembling age, when Spring's renewing 

air 
Waves the thin ringlets of his silvered hair; — 
All, all are glowing with the inward flame, 
Whose wider halo wreathes the poet's name, 
While, unembalmed, the silent dreamer dies. 
His memory passing with his smiles and sighs! 

If glorious visions, born for all mankind, 
The bright auroras of our twilight mind; 
If fancies, varying as the shapes that lie 
Stained on the windows of the sunset sky; 
If hopes, that beckon with delusive gleams, 
Till the eye dances in the void of dreams; 
If passions, following with the winds that urge 
Earth's wildest wanderer to her farthest 

verge; — 
If these on all some transient hours bestow 
Of rapture tingling with its hectic glow, 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 7 

Then all are poets; and, if earth had rolled 
Her myriad centuries, and her doom were told. 
Each moaning billow of her shoreless wave 
Would wail its requiem o'er a poet's grave! 

If to embody in a breathing word 
Tones that the spirit trembled when it heard; 
To fix the image all unveiled and warm. 
And carve in language its ethereal form. 
So pure, so perfect, that the lines express 
No meagre shrinking, no unlaced excess; 
To feel that art, in living truth, has taught 
Ourselves, reflected in the sculptured thought; — 
If this alone bestow the right to claim 
The deathless garland and the sacred name; 
Then none are poets, save the saints on high, 
Whose harps can murmur all that words deny ! 

But though to none is granted to reveal. 
In perfect semblance, all that each may feel, 
As withered flowers recall forgotten love, 
So, warmed to life, our faded passions move 
In every line, where kindling fancy throws 
The gleam of pleasures, or the shade of woes. 



8 POETRY; 

When, schooled by time, the stately queen 

of art 
Had smoothed the pathways leading to the 

heart, 
Assumed her measured tread, her solemn tone. 
And round her courts the clouds of fable 

thrown. 
The wreaths of heaven descended on her shrine. 
And wondering earth proclaimed the Muse 

divine; 
Yet, if her votaries had but dared profane 
The mystic symbols of her sacred reign. 
How had they smiled beneath the veil to find 
What slender threads can chain the mighty 

mind ! 

Poets, like painters, their machinery claim. 
And verse bestows the varnish and the frame; 
Our grating English, whose Teutonic jar 
Shakes the racked axle of Art's rattling car. 
Fits like mosaic in the lines that gird 
Fast in its place each many-angled word; 
From Saxon lips Anacreon's numbers glide, 
As once they melted on the Teian tide. 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 9 

And, fresh transfused, the Iliad thrills again 
From Albion's cliffs as o'er Achaia's plain! 
The proud heroic, with its pulse-like beat, 
Rings like the cymbals clashing as they meet; 
The sweet Spenserian, gathering as it flows, 
Sweeps gently onward to its dying close. 
Where waves on waves in long sucession pour, 
Till the ninth billow melts along the shore; 
The lonely spirit of the mournful lay, 
Which lives immortal as the verse of Gray, 
In sable plumage slowly drifts along. 
On eagle pinion, through the air of song; 
The glittering lyric bounds elastic by. 
With flashing ringlets and exulting eye, 
While every image, in her airy whirl. 
Gleams like a diamond on a dancing girl!^ 

Born with mankind, with man's expanded 
range 
And varying fates the poet's numbers change; 
Thus in his history may we hope to find 
Some clearer epochs of the poet's mind, 
As from the cradle of its birth we trace, 
Slow wandering forth, the patriarchal race. 



10 POETRY; 



I. 



When the green earth, beneath the zephyr's 

wing, 
Wears on her breast the varnished buds of 

Spring; 
When the loosed current, as its folds uncoil. 
Slides in the channels of the mellowed soil; 
When the young hyacinth returns to seek 
The air and sunshine with her emerald beak; 
When the light snowdrops, starting from their 

cells, 
Hang each pagoda with its silver bells; 
When the frail willow twines her trailing bow 
With pallid leaves that sweep the soil below; 
When the broad elm, sole empress of the plain, 
Whose circling shadow speaks a century's reign. 
Wreathes in the clouds her regal diadem, — 
A forest waving on a single stem; — 
Then mark the poet; though to him unknown 
The quaint-mouthed titles, such as scholars 

own. 
See how his eye in ecstasy pursues 
The steps of Nature tracked in radiant hues; 



A METRICAL ESSAY, 11 

Nay, in thyself, whate'er may be thy fate, 
Pallid with toil, or surfeited with state, 
Mark how thy fancies, with the vernal rose, 
Awake, all sweetness, from their long repose; 
Then turn to ponder o'er the classic page, 
Traced with the idyls of a greener age, 
And learn the instinct which arose to warm 
Art's earliest essay, and her simplest form. 

To themes like these her narrow path con- 
fined 
The first-born impulse moving in the mind; 
In vales unshaken by the trumpet's sound. 
Where peaceful Labor tills his fertile ground. 
The silent changes of the rolling years, 
Marked on the soil, or dialled on the spheres, 
The crested forests and the colored flowers. 
The dewy grottos and the blushing bowers. 
These, and their guardians, who, with liquid 

names, 
Strephons and Chloes, melt in mutual flames. 
Woo the young Muses from their mountain 

shade. 
To make Arcadias in the lonely glade. 



12 POETRY; 

Nor think they visit only with their smiles 
The fabled valleys and Elysian isles; 
He who is wearied of his village plain 
May roam the Edens of the world in vain. 
'Tis not the star-crowned cliff, the cataract* s 

flow, 
The softer foliage, or the greener glow. 
The lake of sapphire, or the spar-hung cave, 
The brighter sunset, or the broader wave, 
Can warm his heart whom every wind has 

blown 
To every shore, forgetful of his own. 

Home of our childhood ! how affection clings 
And hovers round thee with her seraph wings! 
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown. 
Than fairest summits which the cedars crown ! 
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze 
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas! 
The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's sigh. 
For the heart's temple is its own blue sky! 

O happiest they, whose early love unchanged, 
Hopes undissolved, and friendship unestranged. 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 13 

Tired of their wanderings, still can deign to 

see 
Love, hopes, and friendship, centring all in 

thee ! 

And thou, my village! as again I tread 
Amidst thy living, and above thy dead; 
Though some fair playmates guard with chaster 

fears 
Their cheeks, grown holy with the lapse of 

years ; 
Though with the dust some reverend locks 

may blend, 
Where life's last mile-stone marks the jour- 
ney's end; 
On every bud the changing year recalls. 
The brightening glance of morning memory 

falls. 
Still following onward as the months unclose 
The balmy lilac or the bridal rose; 
And still shall follow, till they sink once more 
Beneath the snow-drifts of the frozen shore. 
As when my bark, long tossing in the gale. 
Furled in her port her tempest-rended sail! 



14 POETRY; 

What shall I give thee? Can a simple lay, 
Flung on thy bosom like a girl's bouquet, 
Do more than deck thee for an idle hour, 
Then fall unheeded, fading like the flower? 
Yet, when I trod, with footsteps wild and free, 
The crackling leaves beneath yon linden tree, 
Panting from play, or dripping from the stream, 
How bright the visions of my boyish dream! 
Or, modest Charles, along thy broken edge. 
Black with soft ooze and fringed with arrowy 

sedge, 
As once I wandered in the morning sun, 
With reeking sandal and superfluous gun; 
How oft, as Fancy whispered in the gale. 
Thou wast the Avon of her flattering tale! 
Ye hills, whose foliage, fretted on the skies, 
Prints shadowy arches on their evening dyes. 
How should my song, with holiest charm, invest 
Each dark ravine and forest-lifting crest! 
How clothe in beauty each familiar scene, 
Till all was classic on my native green! 

As the drained fountain, filled with autumn 
leaves, 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 16 

The field swept naked of its garnered sheaves; 
So wastes at noon the promise of our dawn, 
The springs all choking, and the harvest gone. 

Yet hear the lay of one whose natal star 
Still seemed the brightest when it shone afar; 
Whose cheek, grown pallid with ungracious 

toil. 
Glows in the welcome of his parent soil; 
And ask no garlands sought beyond the tide, 
But take the leaflets gathered at your side. 



Our ancient church ! its lowly tower, 

Beneath the loftier spire. 
Is shadowed when the sunset hour 

Clothes the tall shaft in fire; 
It sinks beyond the distant eye, 

Long ere the glittering vane. 
High wheeling in the western sky, 

Has faded o'er the plain. 

Like Sentinel and Nun, they keep 
Their vigil on the green; 



16 POETRY; 

One seems to guard, and one to weep, 

The dead that lie between; 
And both roll out, so full and near, 

Their music's mingling waves, 
They shade the grass, whose pennoned spear 

Leans on the narrow graves. 

The stranger parts the flaunting weeds. 

Whose seeds the winds have strown 
So thick beneath the line he reads. 

They shade the sculptured stone; 
The child unveils his clustered brow, 

And ponders for a while 
The graven willow's pendent bough, 

Or rudest cherub's smile. 

But what to them the dirge, the knell? 

These were the mourner's share; — 
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell 

Throbbed through the beating air; — 
The rattling cord, — the rolling stone, — 

The shelving sand that slid, 
And, far beneath, with hollow tone, 

Rung on the coffin's lid. 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 17 

The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green, 

Then slowly disappears; 
The mosses creep, the gray stones lean, 

Earth hides his date and years; 
But, long before the once-loved name 

Is sunk or worn away, 
No lip the silent dust may claim. 

That pressed the breathing clay. 

Go where the ancient pathway guides, 

See where our sires laid down 
Their smiling babes, their cherished brides. 

The patriarchs of the town; 
Hast thou a tear for buried love? 

A sigh for transient power? 
All that a century left above. 

Go, read it in an hour! 

The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball, 

The sabre's thirsting edge. 
The hot shell, shattering in its fall, 

The bayonet's rending wedge, — 
Here scattered death; yet, seek the spot. 

No trace thine eye can see, 



18 . POETRY; 

No altar, — and they need it not 
Who leave their children free ! 

Look where the turbid rain-drops stand 

In many a chiselled square, 
The knightly crest, the shield, the brand 

Of honored names were there; — 
Alas! for every tear is dried 

Those blazoned tablets knew, 
Save when the icy marble's side 

Drips with the evening dew. 

Or gaze upon yon pillared stone, ^ 

The empty urn of pride; 
There stand the Goblet and the Sun, — 

What need of more beside? 
Where lives the memory of the dead, 

Who made their tomb a toy? 
Whose ashes press that nameless bed? 

Go, ask the village boy! 

Lean o'er the slender western wall. 

Ye ever roaming girls; 
The breath that bids the blossom fall 

May lift your floating curls, 



A METRICAL ESSAY, 19 

To sweep the simple lines that tell 

An exile's date and doom; 
And sigh, for where his daughters dwell, 

They wreathe the stranger's tomb. 

And one amid these shades was born, 

Beneath this turf who lies, 
Once beaming as the summer's morn. 

That closed her gentle eyes; — 
If sinless angels love as we, 

Who stood thy grave beside. 
Three seraph welcomes waited thee, 

The daughter, sister, bride! 

I wandered to thy buried mound 

When earth was hid below 
The level of the glaring ground. 

Choked to its gates with snow, 
And when the summer's flowery waves 

The lake of verdure rolled. 
As if a Sultan's white-robed slaves 

Had scattered pearls and gold. 

Nay, the soft pinions of the air. 
That lift this trembling tone, 



20 POETRY; 

Its breath of love may almost bear, 
To kiss thy funeral stone; — 

And, now thy smiles have passed away, 
For all the joy they gave, 

May sweetest dews and warmest ray 
Lie on thine early grave! 

When damps beneath, and storms above, 

Have bowed these fragile towers, 
Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove 

Shall swing its Orient flowers; — 
And I would ask no mouldering bust, 

If e'er this humble line. 
Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust. 

Might call a tear on mine. 



II. 

But times were changed] the torch of terror 

came, 
To light the summits with the beacon's flame; 
The streams ran crimson, the tall mountain 

pines 
Rose a new forest o'er embattled lines; 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 21 

The bloodless sickle lent the warrior's steel, 
The harvest bowed beneath his chariot wheel; 
Where late the wood-dove sheltered her repose, 
The raven waited for the conflict's close; 
The cuirassed sentry walked his sleepless round 
Where Daphne smiled or Amaryllis frowned; 
Where timid minstrels sung their blushing 

charms, 
Some wild Tyrtseus called aloud, " To arms ! *' 

When Glory wakes, when fiery spirits leap. 
Roused by her accents from their tranquil 

sleep. 
The ray that flashes from the soldier's crest. 
Lights, as it glances, in the poet's breast; — 
Not in pale dreamers, whose fantastic lay 
Toys with smooth trifles like a child at play, 
But men, who act the passions they inspire. 
Who wave the sabre as they sweep the lyre! 

Ye mild enthusiasts, whose pacific frowns 
Are lost like dew-drops caught in burning 

towns. 
Pluck as ye will the radiant plumes of fame. 



22 POETRY; 

Break Caesar's bust to make yourselves a name, 
But, if your country bares the avenger's blade 
For wrongs unpunished, or for debts unpaid, 
When the roused nation bids her armies form, 
And screams her eagle through the gathering 

storm ; 
When from your ports the bannered frigate 

rides. 
Her black bows scowling to the crested tides, 
Your hour has past; in vain your feeble cry. 
As the babe's wailings to the thundering sky! 

Scourge of mankind! with all the dread 
array, 
That wraps in wrath thy desolating way. 
As the wild tempest wakes the slumbering sea. 
Thou only teachest all that man can be. 
Alike thy tocsin has the power to charm 
The toil-knit sinews of the rustic's arm, 
Or swell the pulses in the poet's veins, 
And bid the nations tremble at his strains: 

The city slept beneath the moonbeam's 
glance, 



A METRICAL ESSAY, 23 

Her white walls gleaming through the vines of 

France, 
And all was hushed, save where the footsteps 

fell, 
On some high tower, of midnight sentinel. 
But one still watched; no self-encircled woes 
Chased from his lids the angel of repose; 
He watched, he wept, for thoughts of bitter 

years 
Bowed his dark lashes, wet with burning tears; 
His country's sufferings and her children's 

shame 
Streamed o'er his memory like a forest's flame; 
Each treasured insult, each remembered wrong, 
Rolled through his heart and kindled into song; 
His taper faded; and the morning gales 
Swept through the world the war-song of 

Marseilles!^ 

Now, while around the smiles of Peace ex- 
pand. 
And Plenty's wreaths festoon the laughing land; 
While France ships outward her reluctant ore. 
And half our navy basks upon the shore; 



24 POETRY; 

From ruder themes our meek-eyed Muses turn 
To crown with roses their enamelled urn. 

If e'er again return those awful days 

Whose clouds were crimsoned with the bea- 
con's blaze, 

Whose grass was trampled by the soldier's 
heel, 

Whose tides were reddened round the rushing 
keel, 

God grant some lyre may wake a nobler strain, 

To rend the silence of our tented plain! 

When Gallia's flag its triple fold displays. 

Her marshalled legions peal the Marseillaise; 

When round the German close the war clouds 
dim. 

Far through their shadows floats his battle- 
hymn; 

When, crowned with joy, the camps of England 
ring, 

A thousand voices shout, "God save the 
King!" 

When victory follows with our eagle's glance, 

Our nation's anthem is a country dance !^ 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 25 

Some prouder muse, when comes the hour 

at last, 
May shake our hill-sides with her bugle-blast; 
Not ours the task; but since the lyric dress 
Relieves the statelier with its sprightliness, 
Hear an old song, which some, perchance, 

have seen 
In stale gazette, or cobwebbed magazine. 
There was an hour when patriots dared profane 
The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain;^ 
And one, who listened to the tale of shame, 
Whose heart still answered to that sacred name. 
Whose eye still followed o'er his country's 

tides 
Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Ironsides! 
From yon lone attic, on a summer's morn, 
Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy 

scorn. 



Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky; 



26 POETRY; 

Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar; — 

The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below. 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag. 

Set every threadbare sail. 
And give her to the ^od of storms, 

The lightning and the gale! 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 27 

III. 

When florid Peace resumed her golden reign, 
And arts revived, and valley bloomed again; 
While War still panted on his broken blade, 
Once more the Muse her heavenly wing essayed. 
Rude was the song; some ballad, stern and wild, 
Lulled the light slumbers of the soldier's child; 
Or young romancer with his threatening glance 
And fearful fables of his bloodless lance. 
Scared the soft fancy of the clinging girls. 
Whose snowy fingers smoothed his raven curls. 
But when long years the stately form had bent, 
And faithless memory her illusions lent, 
So vast the outlines of Tradition grew, 
That History wondered at the shapes she drew. 
And veiled at length their too ambitious hues 
Beneath the pinions of the Epic Muse. 

Far swept her wing; for stormier days had 

brought 
With darker passions deeper tides of thought. 
The camp's harsh tumult and the conflict's 

glow. 



28 POETRY; 

The thrill of triumph and the gasp of woe, 
The tender parting and the glad return, 
The festal banquet and the funeral urn, — 
And all the drama which at once uprears 
Its spectral shadows through the clash of spears. 
From camp and field to echoing verse trans- 
ferred, 
Swelled the proud song that listening nations 
heard. 

Why floats the amaranth in eternal bloom 
O'er Ilium's turrets and Achilles' tomb? 
Why lingers fancy, where the sunbeams smile 
On Circe's gardens and Calypso's isle? 
Why follows memory to the gate of Troy 
Her plumed defender and his trembling boy? 
Lo, the blind dreamer, kneeling on the sand, 
To trace these records with his doubtful hand; 
In fabled tones his own emotion flows, 
And other lips repeat his silent woes; 
In Hector's infant see the babes that shun 
Those deathlike eyes, unconscious of the sun, 
Or in his hero hear himself implore, 
"Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more!" 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 29 

Thus live undying through the lapse of time 
The solemn legends of the warrior's clime; 
Like Egypt's pyramid, or Psestum's fane. 
They stand the heralds of the voiceless plain; 
Yet not like them, for Time, by slow degrees. 
Saps the gray stone, and wears the chiselled 

frieze. 
And Isis sleeps beneath her subject Nile, 
And crumbled Neptune strews his Dorian pile; 
But Art's fair fabric, strengthening as it rears 
Its laurelled columns through the mist of years. 
As the blue arches of the bending skies 
Still gird the torrent, following as it flies. 
Spreads, with the surges bearing on mankind. 
Its starred pavilion o'er the tides of mind! 

In vain the patriot asks some lofty lay 
To dress in state our wars of yesterday. 
The classic days, those mothers of romance. 
That roused a nation for a woman's glance; 
The age of mystery with its hoarded power, 
That girt the tyrant in his storied tower, 
Have past and faded like a dream of youth, 
And riper eras ask for history's truth. 



30 POETRY; 

On other shores, above their mouldering 
towns, 
In sullen pomp the tall cathedral frowns, 
Pride in its aisles, and paupers at the door. 
Which feeds the beggars whom it fleeced of 

yore. 
Simple and frail, our lowly temples throw 
Their slender shadows on the paths below; 
Scarce steal the winds, that sweep his wood- 
land tracks, 
The larch's perfume from the settler's axe, 
Ere, like a vision of the morning air. 
His slight-framed steeple marks the house of 

prayer; 
Its planks all reeking, and its paint undried. 
Its rafters sprouting on the shady side. 
It sheds the raindrops from its shingled eaves. 
Ere its green brothers once have changed their 
leaves. 

Yet Faith's pure hymn, beneath its shelter 
rude. 
Breathes out as sweetly to the tangled wood, 
As where the rays through blazing oriels pour 



A METRICAL ESSAY, 31 

On marble shaft and tessellated floor; — 
Heaven asks no surplice round the heart that 

feels, 
And all is holy where devotion kneels. 

Thus on the soil the patriot's knee should 
bend, 
Which holds the dust once living to defend; 
Where'er the hireling shrinks before the free, 
Each pass becomes "a new Thermopylae " ! 
Where'er the battles of the brave are won, 
There every mountain "looks on Marathon"! 

Our fathers live; they guard in glory still 
The grass-grown bastions of the fortressed hill; 
Still ring the echoes of the trampled gorge, 
With God and Freedom! England and Saint 

George ! 
The royal cipher on the captured gun 
Mocks the sharp night-dews and the blistering 

sun! 
The red-cross banner shades its captor's bust, 
Its folds still loaded with the conflict's dust; 
The drum, suspended by its tattered marge, 



32 POETRY; 

Once rolled and rattled to the Hessian's charge; 
The stars have floated from Britannia's mast, 
The redcoat's trumpets blown the rebel's blast. 

Point to the summits where the brave have 
bled, 
Where every village claims its glorious dead; 
Say, when their bosoms met the bayonet 

shock. 
Their only corselet was the rustic frock; 
Say, when they mustered to the gathering horn. 
The titled chieftain curled his lip in scorn, 
Yet, when their leader bade his lines advance, 
No musket wavered in the lion's glance; 
Say, when they fainted in the forced retreat. 
They tracked the snow-drifts with their bleed- 
ing feet. 
Yet still their banners, tossing in the blast, 
Bore Ever Ready,^ faithful to the last. 
Through storm and battle, till they waved again 
On Yorktown's hills and Saratoga's plain! 

Then, if so fierce the insatiate patriot's 
flame, 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 33 

Truth looks too pale, and history seems too 

tame, 
Bid him await some new Columbiad's page, 
To gild the tablets of an iron age. 
And save his tears, which yet may fall upon 
Some fabled field, some fancied Washington! 



IV. 

But once again, from their ^olian cave, 
The winds of Genius wandered on the wave. 
Tired of the scenes the timid pencil drew, 
Sick of the notes the sounding clarion blew; 
Sated with heroes who had worn so long 
The shadowy plumage of historic song; 
The new-born poet left the beaten course, • 
To track the passions to their living source. 

Then rose the Drama; — and the world ad- 
mired 
Her varied page with deeper thought inspired; 
Bound to no clime, for Passion's throb is one 
In Greenland's twilight or in India's sun; 



34 POETRY; 

Born for no age, — for all the thoughts that 

roll 
In the dark vortex of the stormy soul, 
Unchained in song, no freezing years can 

tame; 
God gave them birth, and man is still the same. 

So full on life her magic mirror shone. 
Her sister Arts paid tribute to her throne; 
One reared her temple, one her canvas warmed. 
And Music thrilled, while Eloquence informed. 
The weary rustic left his stinted task 
For smiles and tears, the dagger and the mask; 
The sage, turned scholar, half forgot his lore, 
To be the woman he despised before; 
O'er sense and thought she threw her golden 

chain. 
And Time, the anarch, spares her deathless 

reign. 

Thus lives Medea, in our tamer age. 
As when her buskin pressed the Grecian stage; 
Not in the cells where frigid learning delves 
In Aldine folios mouldering on their shelves; 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 35 

But breathing, burning in the glittering throng, 
Whose thousand bravos roll untired along, 
Circling and spreading through the gilded halls 
From London's galleries to San Carlo's walls! 

Thus shall he live whose more than mortal 

name 
Mocks with its ray the pallid torch of Fame; 
So proudly lifted, that it seems afar 
No earthly Pharos, but a heavenly star; 
Who, unconfined to Art's diurnal bound. 
Girds her whole zodiac in his flaming round, 
And leads the passions, like the orb that 

guides. 
From pole to pole, the palpitating tides! 



Though round the Muse the robe of song is 
thrown, 
Think not the poet lives in verse alone. 
Long ere the chisel of the sculptor taught 
The lifeless stone to mock the living thought; 



36 POETRY; 

Long ere the painter bade the canvas glow 

With every line the forms of beauty know; 

Long ere the Iris of the Muses threw 

On every leaf its own celestial hue; 

In fable's dress the breath of genius poured, 

And warmed the shapes that later times adored. 

Untaught by Science how to forge the keys, 
That loose the gates of Nature's mysteries; 
Unschooled by Faith, who, with her angel tread. 
Leads ^through the labyrinth with a single thread. 
His fancy, hovering round her guarded tower. 
Rained through its bars like Danae's golden 
shower. 

He spoke; the sea-nymph answered from her 
cave: 
He called; the naiad left her mountain wave: 
He dreamed of beauty; lo, amidst his dream, 
Narcissus mirrored in the breathless stream; 
And night's chaste empress, in her bridal play, 
Laughed through the foliage where Endymion lay; 
And ocean dimpled, as the languid swell 
Kissed the red lip of Cytherea's shell: 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 37 

Of power, — Bellona swept the crimson field, 
And blue-eyed Pallas shook her Gorgon shield; 
O'er the hushed waves their mightier monarch 

drove. 
And Ida trembled to the tread of Jove! 

So every grace, that plastic language knows, 
To nameless poets its perfection owes. 
The rough-hewn words to simplest thoughts 

confined, 
Were cut and polished in their nicer mind; 
Caught on their edge, imagination's ray 
Splits into rainbows, shooting far away; — 
From sense to soul, from soul to sense, it flies, 
And through all nature links analogies; 
He who reads right will rarely look upon 
A better poet than his lexicon! 

There is a race, which cold, ungenial skies 
Breed from decay, as fungous growths arise; 
Though dying fast, yet springing fast again, 
Which still usurps an unsubstantial reign. 
With frames too languid for the charms of sense, 
And minds worn down with action too intense; 



38 POETRY; 

Tired of a world whose joys they never knew, 
Themselves deceived, yet thinking all untrue; 
Scarce men without, and less than girls within. 
Sick of their life before its cares begin; — 
The dull disease, which drains their feeble 

hearts, 
To life's decay some hectic thrills imparts, 
And lends a force which, like the maniac's 

power, 
Pays with blank years the frenzy of an hour. 

And this is Genius! Say, does Heaven 

degrade 
The manly frame, for health, for action made? 
Break down the sinews, rack the brow with 

pains, 
Blanch the bright cheek, and drain the purple 

veins. 
To clothe the mind with more extended sway, 
Thus faintly struggling in degenerate clay? 

No! gentle maid, too ready to admire. 
Though false its notes, the pale enthusiast's 
lyre; 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 39 

If this be genius, though its bitter springs 
Glowed like the morn beneath Aurora's wings, 
Seek not the source whose sullen bosom feeds 
But fruitless flowers, and dark, envenomed 
weeds. 

But, if so bright the dear illusion seems, 
Thou wouldst be partner of thy poet's dreams. 
And hang in rapture on his bloodless charms. 
Or die, like Raphael, in his angel arms; 
Go, and enjoy thy blessed lot, — to share 
In Cowper's gloom, or Chatterton's despair! 

Not such were they whom, wandering o'er 

the waves, 
I looked to meet, but only found their graves; 
If friendship's smile, the better part of fame. 
Should lend my song the only wreath I claim. 
Whose voice would greet me with a sweeter 

tone, 
Whose living hand more kindly press my 

own. 
Than theirs, — could Memory, as her silent 

tread 



40 POETRY; 

Prints the pale flowers that blossom o^er the 

dead, 
Those breathless lips, now closed in peace, 

restore. 
Or wake those pulses hushed to beat no more ? 

Thou calm, chaste scholar!^ I can see thee 
now. 
The first young laurels on thy pallid brow. 
O'er thy slight figure floating lightly down 
In graceful folds the academic gown. 
On thy curled lip the classic lines, that taught 
How nice the mind that sculptured them with 

thought. 
And triumph glistening in the clear blue eye. 
Too bright to live, — but oh, too fair to die ! 

And thou, dear friend,^ whom Science still 

deplores. 
And love still mourns, on ocean-severed shores, 
Though the bleak forest twice has bowed with 

snow, 
Since thou wast laid its budding leaves below, 
Thine image mingles with my closing strain. 



A METRICAL ESSAY. 41 

As when we wandered by the turbid Seine, 
Both blest with hopes, which revelled, bright 

and free, 
On all we longed, or all we dreamed to be; 
To thee the amaranth and the cypress fell, — 
And I was spared to breathe this last farewell ! 

But lived there one in unremembered days. 
Or lives there still, who spurns the poet's 

bays? 
Whose fingers, dewy from Castalia's springs. 
Rest on the lyre, yet scorn to touch the strings? 
Who shakes the senate with the silver tone 
The groves of Pindus might have sighed to 

own? 
Have such e'er been? Remember Canning's 

name! 
Do such still live? Let ^^Alaric's Dirge'* pro- 
claim ! 

Immortal Art! where'er the rounded sky 
Bends o'er the cradle where thy children lie. 
Their home is earth, their herald every tongue 
Whose accents echo to the voice that sung. 



42 POETRY; A METRICAL ESSAY. 

One leap of Ocean scatters on the sand 
The quarried bulwarks of the loosening land; 
One thrill of earth dissolves a century* s toil, 
Strewed like the leaves that vanish in the soil; 
One hill overflows, and cities sink below, 
Their marbles splintering in the lava's glow; 
But one sweet tone, scarce whispered to the 

air, 
From shore to shore the blasts of ages bear; 
One humble name, which oft, perchance, has 

borne 
The tyrant's mockery and the courtier's scorn, 
Towers o'er the dust of earth's forgotten graves, 
As once, emerging through the waste of waves, 
The rocky Titan, round whose shattered spear 
Coiled the last whirlpool of the drowning 

sphere I 



NOTES. 



Note i. Page i. 
" Scenes of my youth *^ 
This poem was commenced a few months subsequently 
to the author's return to his native village, after an absence 
of nearly three years. 

Note 2. Page 9. 
A few lines, perhaps deficient in dignity, were introduced 
at this point, in delivering the poem, and are appended in 
this clandestine manner for the gratification of some of my 
audience. 

How many a stanza, blushing like the rose, 
Would turn to fustian if resolved to prose ! 
How many an epic, like a gilded crown, 
If some cold critic dared to melt it down, 
Roll in his crucible a shapeless mass, 
A grain of gold-leaf to a pound of brass ! 
Shorn of their plumes, our moonstruck sonneteers 
Would seem but jackdaws croaking to the spheres; 
43 



44 POETRY; A METRICAL ESSAY. 

/. 

Our gay Lotharios, with their Byron curls, 

Would pine like oysters cheated of their pearls ! 

Wo to the spectres of Parnassus' shade, 
If truth should mingle in the masquerade. 
Lo, as the songster's pale creations pass. 
Off come at once the " Dearest " and " Alas ! " 
Crack go the lines and levers used to prop 
Top-heavy thoughts, and down at once they drop. 
Flowers weep for hours ; Love, shrieking for his dove^ 
Finds not the solace that he seeks — above. 
Fast in the mire, through which in happier time 
He ambled dryshod on the stilts of rhyme. 
The prostrate poet finds at length a tongue 
To curse in prose the thankless stars he sung. 

And though, perchance, the haughty muse it shames, 
How deep the magic of harmonious names ! 
How sure the story of romance to please. 
Whose rounded stanza ends with Heloise ! 
How rich and full our intonations ride 
" On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side " ! 
But were her name some vulgar " proper noun," 
And Pambamarca changed to Belchertown, 
She might be pilloried for her doubtful fame^ 
And no enthusiast would arise to blame; 
And he who outraged the poetic sense. 
Might find a home at Belchertown's expense S 



NOTES. 46 

The harmless boys, scarce knowing right from wrong, 
Who libel others and themselves in song, 
When their first pothooks of poetic rage 
Slant down the corners of an album's page, 
(Where crippled couplets spread their sprawling charms, 
As half-taught swimmers move their legs and arms,) 
Will talk of " Hesper on the brow of eve," 
And call their cousins " lovely Genevieve "; — 
While thus transformed, each dear deluded maid, 
Pleased with herself in novel grace arrayed, 
Smiles on the Paris who has come to crown 
This new-born Helen in a gingham gown ! 

Note 3. Page 18. 
" Or gaze upon yon pillared stone J*^ 
The tomb of the Vassall family is marked by a free- 
stone tablet, supported by five pillars, and bearing nothing 
but the sculptured reliefs of the Goblet and the Sun, — 
Vas-Sol — which designated a powerful family, now 
almost forgotten. 

The exile referred to in the next stanza was a native of 
Honfleur in Normandy. 

Note 4. Page 23. 
" Swept through the world the war-song of Marseilles'^ 
The music and words of the Marseilles Hymn were com- 
posed in one night. 



46 POETRY; A METRICAL ESSAY. 

Note 5. Page 24. 

** Our nation's anthem is a country dance t"*^ 

The popular air of " Yankee Doodle," like the dagger of 
Hudibras, serves a pacific as well as a martial purpose. 

Note 6. Page 25. 

" The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain.'*^ 

The lyric which follows was printed in the " Boston 
Daily Advertiser," at the time when it was proposed to 
break up the frigate Constitution as unfit for service. 

Note 7. Page 32. 

^^ Bore Ever ^e.d.dy, faithful to the last.'*'* 

" Semper par atus^"* — a motto of the revolutionary stand- 
ards. 

Note 8. Page 40. 

** Thou calm, chaste scholar.'*'* 

Charles Chauncy Emerson; died May 9th, 1836. 

Note 9. Page 40. 
*^ And thou ^ dear friend."*^ 
James Jackson, Jr., M.D. ; died March 29th, 1834. 



LYRICS. 



LYRICS. 



THE LAST READER. 

I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree, 

And read my own sweet songs; 

Though naught they may to others be, 
Each humble line prolongs 

A tone that might have passed away, 

But for that scarce remembered lay. 

I keep them like a lock or leaf. 
That some dear girl has given; 

Frail record of an hour, as brief 
As sunset clouds in heaven, 

But spreading purple twilight still 

High over memory's shadowed hill. 

They lie upon my pathway bleak, 

Those flowers that once ran wild, 
49 



50 THE LAST READER. 

As on a father's care-worn cheek 

The ringlets of his child; 
The golden mingling with the gray, 
And stealing half its snows away. 

What care I though the dust is spread 
Around these yellow leaves, 

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread 
Oblivion's insect weaves; 

Though weeds are tangled on the stream, 

It still reflects my morning's beam. 

And therefore love I such as smile 
On these neglected songs, 

Nor deem that flattery's needless wile 
My opening bosom wrongs; 

For who would trample, at my side, 

A few pale buds, my garden's pride? 

It may be that my scanty ore 

Long years have washed away, 

And where were golden sands before, 
Is naught but common clay; 

Still something sparkles in the sun 

For Memory to look back upon. 



THE LAST READER. 51 

And when my name no more is heard, 
My lyre no more is known, 

Still let me, like a winter's bird. 
In silence and alone, 

Fold over them the weary wing 

Once flashing through the dews of spring. 

Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap 

My youth in its decline. 
And riot in the rosy lap 

Of thoughts that once were mine, 
And give the worm my little store 
When the last reader reads no more ! 



OUR YANKEE GIRLS. 

Let greener lands and bluer skies, 

If such the wide earth shows, 
With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes, 

Match us the star and rose; 
The winds that lift the Georgian's veil, 

Or wave Circassia's curls, 
Waft to their shores the sultan's sail, — 

Who buys our Yankee girls? 

The gay grisette, whose fingers touch 

Love's thousand chords so well; 
The dark Italian, loving much. 

But more than one can tell; 
And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed dame. 

Who binds her brow with pearls; — 
Ye who have seen them, can they shame 

Our own sweet Yankee girls? 

And what if court or castle vaunt 
Its children loftier born? — 
62 



OUR YANKEE GIRLS. 63 

Who heeds the silken tassePs flaunt 

Beside the golden corn? 
They ask not for the dainty toil 

Of ribboned knights and earls, 
The daughters of the virgin soil, 

Our free-born Yankee girls! 

By every hill whose stately pines 

Wave their dark arms above 
The home where some fair being shines. 

To warm the wilds with love, 
From barest rock to bleakest shore 

Where farthest sail unfurls, 
That stars and stripes are streaming o'er, — 

God bless our Yankee girls' 



LA GRISETTE. 

Ah Clemence ! when I saw thee last 

Trip down the Rue de Seine, 
And turning, when thy form had past, 

I said, "We meet again,'' — 
I dreamed not in that idle glance 

Thy latest image came. 
And only left to memory's trance 

A shadow and a name. 

The few strange words my lips had taught * 

Thy timid voice to speak. 
Their gentler signs, which often brought 

Fresh roses to thy cheek, 
The trailing of thy long loose hair 

Bent o'er my couch of pain, 
All, all returned, more sweet, more fair; 

O had we met again! 

I walked where saint and virgin keep 
The vigil lights of heaven, 
54 



LA GRISETTE. 65 

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, 

And sins to be forgiven; 
I watched where Genevieve was laid, 

I knelt by Mary's shrine. 
Beside me low, soft voices prayed; 

Alas! but where was thine? 

And when the morning sun was bright. 

When wind and wave were calm. 
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, 

The rose of Notre Dame, 
I wandered through the haunts of men, 

From Boulevard to Quai. 
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, 

The Pantheon's shadow lay. 

In vain, in vain; we meet no more, 

Nor dream what fates befall; 
And long upon the stranger's shore 

My voice on thee may call. 
When years have clothed the line in moss, 

That tells thy name and days, 
And withered, on thy simple cross. 

The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise 1 



AN EVENING THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN AT SEA. 

If sometimes in the dark blue eye, 

Or in the deep red wine, 
Or soothed by gentlest melody, 

Still warms this heart of mine, 
Yet something colder in the blood, 

And calmer in the brain. 
Have whispered that my youth's bright flood 

Ebbs, not to flow again. 

If by Helvetia's azure lake. 

Or Arno's yellow stream. 
Each star of memory could awake. 

As in my first young dream, 
I know that when mine eye shall greet 

The hill-sides bleak and bare. 
That gird my home, it will not meet 

My childhood's sunsets there. 
56 



AN EVENING THOUGHT. 57 

Oh, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss 

Burned on my boyish brow, 
Was that young forehead worn as this? 

Was that flushed cheek as now? 
Were that wild pulse and throbbing heart 

Like these, which vainly strive, 
In thankless strains of soulless art, 

To dream themselves alive? 

Alas! the morning dew is gone, 

Gone ere the full of day; 
Life's iron fetter still is on. 

Its wreaths all torn away; 
Happy if still some casual hour 

Can warm the fading shrine. 
Too soon to chill beyond the power 

Of love, or song, or winel 



A SOUVENIR. 

Yes, lady! I can ne'er forget, 
That once in other years we met; 
Thy memory may perchance recall 
A festal eve, a rose-wreathed hall, 
Its tapers' blaze, its mirrors' glance, 
Its melting song, its ringing dance; — 
Why, in thy dream of virgin joy, 
Shouldst thou recall a pallid boy? 

Thine eye had other forms to seek, 

Why rest upon his bashful cheek? 

With other tones thy heart was stirred. 

Why waste on him a gentle word? 

We parted, lady, — all night long 

Thine ear to thrill with dance and song, — 

And I — to weep that I was born 

A thing thou scarce wouldst deign to scorn. 

And, lady! now that years have past. 
My bark has reached the shore at last; 
§8 



A SOUVENIR. 59 

The gales that filled her ocean wing 
Have chilled and shrunk thy hasty spring, 
And eye to eye, and brow to brow, 
I stand before thy presence now; — 
Thy lip is smoothed, thy voice is sweet, 
Thy warm hand offered when we meet. 

Nay, lady! 'tis not now for me 
To droop the lid or bend the knee. 
I seek thee, — oh, thou dost not shun; 
I speak, — thou listenest like a nun; 
I ask thy smile, — thy lip uncurls, 
Too liberal of its flashing pearls; 
Thy tears, — thy lashes sink again, — 
My Hebe turns to Magdalen! 

O changing youth! that evening hour 
Look down on ours, — the bud — the flower; 
Thine faded in its virgin soil. 
And mine was nursed in tears and toil; 
Thy leaves were withering, one by one. 
While mine were opening to the sun; — 
Which now can meet the cold and storm, 
With freshest leaf and hardiest form? 



60 A SOUVENIR. 

Ay, lady! that once haughty glance 

Still wanders through the glittering dance, 

And asks in vain from others' pride, 

The charity thine own denied; 

And as thy fickle lips could learn 

To smile and praise, — that used to spurn, 

So the last offering on thy shrine 

Shall be this flattering lay of mine! 



"QUI VIVE!" 

"Qui vive!*' The sentry's musket rings, 

The channelled bayonet gleams; 
High o'er him, like a raven's wings 
The broad tricolored banner flings 
Its shadow, rustling as it swings 

Pale in the moonlight beams; 
Pass on! while steel-clad sentries keep 
Their vigil o'er the monarch's sleep, 

Thy bare, unguarded breast 
Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone 
That girds yon sceptred trembler's throne;- 

Pass on, and take thy rest! 

^^ Qui viveV^ How oft the midnight air 

That startling cry has borne! 
How oft the evening breeze has fanned 
The banner of this haughty land, 
O'er mountain snow and desert sand. 
Ere yet its folds were torn! 
61 



62 ''QUI viyEr 

Through Jena*s carnage flying red, 
Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead, 

Or curling on the towers 
Where Austria's eagle quivers yet, 
And suns the ruffled plumage, wet 

With battle's crimson showers! 

^^ Qui viveT^ And is the sentry's cry, — 

The sleepless soldier's hand, — 
Are these, — the painted folds that fly 
And lift their emblems, printed high. 
On morning mist and sunset sky, — 

The guardians of a land? 
No! If the patriot's pulses sleep, 
How vain the watch that hirelings keep, - 

The idle flag that waves. 
When Conquest, with his iron heel, 
Treads down the standards and the steel 

That belt the soil of slaves! 



THE WASP AND THE HORNET. 

The two proud sisters of the sea, 

In glory and in doom ! — 
Well may the eternal waters be 

Their broad, unsculptured tomb! 
The wind that rings along the wave, 

The clear, unshadowed sun. 
Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave, 

Whose last green wreath is won! 

No stranger-hand their banners furled, 

No victor's shout they heard; 
Unseen, above them ocean curled. 

Save by his own pale bird; 
The gnashing billows heaved and fell; 

Wild shrieked the midnight gale; 
Far, far beneath the morning swell 

Were pennon, spar, and sail. 

The land of Freedom! Sea and shore 
Are guarded now, as when 
63 



64 THE IV ASP AND THE HORNET. 

Her ebbing waves to victory bore 
Fair barks and gallant men; 

Oh, many a ship of prouder name 
May wave her starry fold, 

Nor trail, with deeper light of fame, 
The paths they swept of old! 



FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE 
JOURNAL. 

Sweet Mary, I have never breathed 
The love it were in vain to name; 

Though round my heart a serpent wreathed, 
I smiled, or strove to smile, the same. 

Once more the pulse of Nature glows 
With faster throb and fresher fire, 

While music round her pathway flows 
Like echoes from a hidden lyre. 

And is there none with me to share 
The glories of the earth and sky? 

The eagle through the pathless air 
Is followed by one burning eye. 

Ah, no! the cradled flowers may wake, 
Again may flow the frozen sea. 

From every cloud a star may break, — 
There comes no second Spring to me. 
65 



66 FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL 

Go, — ere the painted toys of youth 

Are crushed beneath the tread of years; 

Ere visions have been chilled to truth, 
And hopes are washed away in tears. 

Go, — for I will not bid thee weep, — 
Too soon my sorrows will be thine, 

And evening* s troubled air shall sweep 
The incense from the broken shrine. 

If Heaven can hear the dying tone 

Of chords that soon will cease to thrill, 

The prayer that Heaven has heard alone. 

May bless thee when those chords are still ! 



STANZAS. 

Strange ! that one lightly whispered tone 
Is far, far sweeter unto me, 

Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, 
Or breathe along the sea; 

But, lady, when thy voice I greet, 

Not heavenly music seems so sweet. 

I look upon the fair blue skies. 

And naught but empty air I see; 

But when I turn me to thine eyes, 
It seemeth unto me 

Ten thousand angels spread their wings 

Within those little azure rings. 

The lily hath the softest leaf 

That ever western breeze hath fanned, 
But thou shalt have the tender flower, 

So I may take thy hand; 
That little hand to me doth yield 
More joy than all the broidered field. 
67 



68 STANZAS. 

O lady! there be many things 

That seem right fair, below, above; 

But sure not one among them all 
Is half so sweet as love; — 

Let us not pay our vows alone. 

But join two altars both in one. 



THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE. 

Dearest, a look is but a ray 
Reflected in a certain way; 
A word, whatever tone it wear, 
Is but a trembling wave of air; 
A touch, obedience to a clause 
In nature's pure material laws. 

The very flowers that bend and meet, 

In sweetening others, grow more sweet; 

The clouds by day, the stars by night, 

Inweave their floating locks of light; 

The rainbow. Heaven's own forehead's braid, 

Is but the embrace of sun and shade. 

How few that love us have we found! 
How wide the world that girds them round! 
Like mountain streams we meet and part. 
Each living in the other's heart, 
Our course unknown, our hope to be 
Yet mingled in the distant sea. 
69 



70 THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOFE. 

But Ocean coils and heaves in vain, 
Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain; 
And love and hope do but obey 
Some cold, capricious planet's ray, 
Which lights and leads the tide it charms, 
To Death's dark caves and icy arms. 

Alas! one narrow line is drawn. 
That links our sunset with our dawn; 
In mist and shade life's morning rose, 
And clouds are round it at its close; 
But ah! no twilight beam ascends 
To whisper where that evening ends. 

Oh! in the hour when I shall feel 
Those shadows round my senses steal, 
When gentle eyes are weeping o'er 
The clay that feels their tears no more. 
Then let thy spirit with me be, 
Or some sweet angel, likest thee! 



L'INCONNUE. 

Is thy name Mary, maiden fair? 

Such should, methinks, its music be; 
The sweetest name that mortals bear, 

Were best befitting thee; 
And she, to whom it once was given. 
Was half of earth and half of heaven. 

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, 
I look upon thy folded hair; 

Ah! while we dream not they beguile, 
Our hearts are in the snare; 

And she, who chains a wild bird's wing, 

Must start not if her captive sing. 

So, lady, take the leaf that falls. 

To all but thee unseen, unknown; 

When evening shades thy silent walls, 
Then read it all alone; 

In stillness read, in darkness seal, 

Forget, despise, but not reveal! 
71 



THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY. 

The sun stepped down from his golden throne, 

And lay in the silent sea, 
And the Lily had folded her satin leaves. 

For a sleepy thing was she; 
What is the Lily dreaming of? 

Why crisp the waters blue? 
See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid! 

Her white leaves are glistening through! 

The Rose is cooling his burning cheek 

In the lap of the breathless tide; — 
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair. 

That would lie by the Rose's side; 
He would love her better than all the rest, 

And he would be fond and true; — 
But the Lily unfolded her weary lids, 

And looked at the sky so blue. 

Remember, remember, thou silly one. 
How fast will thy summer glide, 



THE STAR AND THE fVATER-ULY, 73 

And wilt thou wither a virgin pale, 

Or flourish a blooming bride? 
"Oh, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold. 

And he lives on earth," said she; 
"But the Star is fair and he lives in the aii, 

And he shall my bridegroom be." 

But what if the stormy cloud should come 

And ruffle the silver sea? 
Would he turn his eye from the distant sky. 

To smile on a thing like thee? 
Oh, no, fair Lily, he will not send 

One ray from his far-off throne; 
The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, 

And thou wilt be left alone. 

There is not a leaf on the mountain top, 

Nor a drop of evening dew. 
Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore. 

Nor a pearl in the waters blue. 
That he has not cheered with his fickle smile, 

And warmed with his faithless beam, — 
And will he be true to a pallid flower. 

That floats on the quiet stream? 



•74 THE STAR AND THE IVATER-LILY. 

Alas for the Lily! she would not heed, 

But turned to the skies afar, 
And bared her breast to the trembling ray 

That shot from the rising star; 
The cloud came over the darkened sky, 

And over the waters wide: 
She looked in vain through the beating raih. 

And sank in the stormy tide. 



ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. 



She twirled the string of golden beads, 

That round her neck was hung, — 
My grandsire's gift; the good old man 

Loved girls when he was young; 
And, bending lightly o'er the cord, 

And turning half away. 
With something like a youthful sigh, 

Thus spoke the maiden gray: 

"Well, one may trail her silken robe. 

And bind her locks with pearls. 
And one may wreathe the woodland rose 

Among her floating curls; 
And one may tread the dewy grass, 

And one the marble floor. 
Nor half-hid bosom heave the less, 

Nor broidered corset more ! 
75 



76 ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. 

" Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl . 

Was sitting in the shade, — 
There's something brings her to my mind 

In that young dreaming maid, — 
And in her hand she held a flower, 

A flower, whose speaking hue 
Said, in the language of the heart, 

* Believe the giver true.' 

"And, as she looked upon its leaves, 

The maiden made a vow 
To wear it when the bridal wreath 

Was woven for her brow; 
She watched the flower, as, day by day. 

The leaflets curled and died; 
But he who gave it never came 

To claim her for his bride. 

"Oh, many a summer's morning glow 

Has lent the rose its ray, 
And many a winter's drifting snow 

Has swept its bloom away; 
But she has kept that faithless pledge 

To this, her winter hour, 



ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE, 77 

And keeps it still, herself alone, 
And wasted like the flower." 

Her pale lip quivered, and the light 

Gleamed in her moistening eyes; — 
I asked her how she liked the tints 

In those Castilian skies? 
"She thought them misty, — 'twas perhaps 

Because she stood too near; " 
She turned away, and as she turned, 

I saw her wipe a tear. 



THE DYING SENECA. 

He died not as the martyr dies 

Wrapped in his living shroud of flame; 
He fell not as the warrior falls, 

Gasping upon the field of fame; 
A gentler passage to the grave, 
The murderer's softened fury gave. 

Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles 
Had tracked the purple demon's path, 

And yet another victim lived 

To fill the fiery scroll of wrath; 

Could not imperial vengeance spare 

His furrowed brow and silver hair? 

The field was sown with noble blood, 
The harvest reaped in burning tears, 

When, rolling up its crimson flood. 

Broke the long-gathering tide of years; 

His diadem was rent away. 

And beggars trampled on his clay. 
78 



THE DYING SENECA. 79 

None wept, — none pitied; — they who knelt 
At morning by the despot's throne, 

At evening dashed the laurelled bust, 

And spurned the wreaths themselves had 
strewn ; 

The shout of triumph echoed wide, 

The self-stung reptile writhed and died! 



A PORTRAIT. 

A STILL, sweet, placid, moonlight face, 

And slightly nonchalant, 
Which seems to claim a middle place 

Between one's love and aunt. 
Where childhood's star has left a ray 

In woman's sunniest sky. 
As morning dew and blushing day 

On fruit and blossom lie. 

And yet, — and yet I cannot love 

Those lovely lines on steel; 
They beam too much of heaven above. 

Earth's darker shades to feel; 
Perchance some early weeds of care 

Around my heart have grown, 
And brows unfurrowed seem not fair, 

Because they mock my own. 

Alas! when Eden's gates were sealed, 
How oft some sheltered flower 
80 



A PORTRAIT. 81 

Breathed o'er the wanderers of the field, 
Like their own bridal bower; 

Yet, saddened by its loveliness, 
And humbled by its pride, 

Earth's fairest child they could not bless, — 
It mocked them when they sighed. 



A ROMAN AQUEDUCT. 

The sun-browned girl, whose limbs recline 
When noon her languid hand has laid 

Hot on the green flakes of the pine, 
Beneath its narrow disk of shade; 

As, through the flickering noontide glare, 
She gazes on the rainbow chain 

Of arches, lifting once in air 

The rivers of the Roman's plain; -^ 

Say, does her wandering eye recall 

The mountain-current's icy wave, ^ 

Or for the dead* one tear let fall. 

Whose founts are broken by their grave? 

From stone to stone the ivy weaves 

Her braided tracery's winding veil, 

And lacing stalks and tangled leaves 
Nod heavy in the drowsy gale. 

82 



A ROMAN AQUEDUCT. 83 

And lightly floats the pendent vine, 

That swings beneath her slender bow, 

Arch answering arch, — whose rounded line 
Seems mirrored in the wreath below. 

How patient Nature smiles at Fame ! 

The weeds, that strewed the victor^s way, 
Feed on his dust to shroud his name. 

Green where his proudest towers decay. 

See, through that channel, empty now, 
The scanty rain its tribute pours, — 

Which cooled the lip and laved the brow 
Of conquerors from a hundred shores. 

Thus bending o'er the nation's bier. 

Whose wants the captive earth supplied,- 

The dew of Memory's passing tear 
Falls on the arches of her pride! 



THE LAST PROPHECY OF CASSANDRA. 

The sun is fading in the skies 

And evening shades are gathering fast; 
Fair city, ere that sun shall rise, 

Thy night hath come, — thy day is past I 

Ye know not, — but the hour is nigh; 

Ye will not heed the warning breath; 
No vision strikes your clouded eye, 

To break the sleep that wakes in death. 

Go, age, and let thy withered cheek 

Be wet once more with freezing tears; 

And bid thy trembling sorrow speak, 
In accents of departed years. 

Go, child, and pour thy sinless prayer 

Before the everlasting throne; 
And He who sits in glory there, 

May stoop to hear thy silver tone. 

84 



THE LAST PROPHECY OF CASSANDRA. 85 

Go, warrior, in thy glittering steel. 
And bow thee at the altar's side; 

And bid thy frowning gods reveal 

The doom their mystic counsels hide. 

Go, maiden, in thy flowing veil, 

And bare thy brow, and bend thy knee; 
When the last hopes of mercy fail, 

Thy God may yet remember thee. 

Go, as thou didst in happier hours. 

And lay thine incense on the shrine; 

And greener leaves, and fairer flowers, 
Around the sacred image twine. 

I saw them rise, — the buried dead, — • 
From marble tomb and grassy mound; 

I heard the spirits' printless tread. 
And voices not of earthly sound. 

I looked upon the quivering stream, 

And its cold wave was bright with flame; 

And wild, as from a fearful dream. 
The wasted forms of battle came. 



86 THE LAST PROPHECY OF CASSANDRA. 

Ye will not hear — ye will not know, — 
Ye scorn the maniac's idle song; 

Ye care not! but the voice of woe 

Shall thunder loud, and echo long. 

Blood shall be in your marble halls. 

And spears shall glance, and fires shall 
glow; 

Ruin shall sit upon your walls. 

But ye shall lie in death below. 

Ay, none shall live to hear the storm 

Around their blackened pillars sweep; 

To shudder at the reptile's form. 

Or scare the wild bird from her sleep. 



TO A CAGED LION. 

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty 

glance 
Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by 

time, 
And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread 

Lives the proud spirit of thy burning 

clime; — 
Fettered by things that shudder at thy roar, 
Torn from thy pathless wilds to pace this 

narrow floor! 

Thou wast the victor, and all nature shrunk 
Before the thunders of thine awful wrath; 

The steel-armed hunter viewed thee from afar. 
Fearless and trackless in thy lonely path! 

The famished tiger closed his flaming eye, 

And crouched and panted as thy step went by ! 

Thou art the vanquished, and insulting man 
Bars thy broad bosom as a sparrow's wing; 

87 



88 TO A CAGED LION, 

His nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind, 
And lead in chains the desert's fallen 

king; 
Are these the beings that have dared to twine 
Their feeble threads around those limbs of 

thine ? 

So must it be; the weaker, wiser race, 

That wields the tempest and that rides 
the sea, 
Even in the stillness of thy solitude 

Must teach the lesson of its power to thee; 
And thou, the terror of the trembling wild. 
Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of 
a child I 



TO MY COMPANIONS. 

Mine ancient Chair! thy wide-embracing arms 
Have clasped around me even from a boy; 

Hadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by, 
Thine were a tale of sorrow and of joy, 

Of fevered hopes and ill-foreboding fears, 

And smile unseen, and unrecorded tears. 

And thou, my Table ! though unwearied Time 
Hath set his signet on thine altered brow. 

Still can I see thee in thy spotless prime. 
And in my memory thou art living now; 

Soon must thou slumber with forgotten things, 

The peasant's ashes and the dust of kings. 

Thou melancholy Mug ! thy sober brown 

Hath something pensive in its evening hue, 
Not like the things that please the tasteless 
clown. 
With gaudy streaks of orange and of blue; 
89 . 



90 TO MY COMPANIONS, 

And I must love thee, for thou art mine own, 
Pressed by my lip, and pressed by mine alone. 

My broken Mirror! faithless, yet beloved. 

Thou who canst smile, and smile alike on all, 

Oft do I leave thee, oft again return, 
I scorn the siren, but obey the call; 

I hate thy falsehood, while I fear thy truth. 

But most I love thee, flattering friend of youth. 

Primeval Carpet! every well-worn thread ' 
Has slowly parted with its virgin dye; 

I saw thee fade beneath the ceaseless tread, 
Fainter and fainter in mine anxious eye; 

So flies the color from the brightest flower. 

And heaven's own rainbow lives but for an hour. 

I love you all! there radiates from our own 
A soul that lives in every shape we see; 

There is a voice, to other ears unknown. 

Like echoed music answering to its key. 

The dungeoned captive hath a tale to tell, 

Of every insect in his lonely cell; 

And these poor frailties have a simple tone, 

That breathes in accents sweet to me alone. 



THE LAST LEAF. 

I SAW him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound. 
As he totters o*er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head. 
That it seems as if he said, 

"They are gone.*' 
91 



92 THE LAST LEAF. 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has prest 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago, — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff. 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 
At him here; 



THE LAST LEAF. 93 

But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 
Are so queer 1 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring. 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 



TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER. 

Wan-visaged thing! thy virgin leaf 

To me looks more than deadly pale, 

Unknowing what may stain thee yet, — 
A poem or a tale. 

Who can thy unborn meaning scan? 

Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now? 
No, — seek to trace the fate of man 

Writ on his infant brow. 

Love may light on thy snowy cheek, 

And shake his Eden-breathing plumes; 

Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles, 
Or Angelina blooms. 

Satire may lift his bearded lance, 

Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe. 

And, scattered on thy little field. 
Disjointed bards may writhe. 
94 



TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER. 95 

Perchance a vision of the night, 

Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin, 

Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along, 
Or skeleton may grin! 

If it should be in pensive hour 

Some sorrow-moving theme I try, 

Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall, 
For all I doom to die! 

But if in merry mood I touch 

Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee 
Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips 

As ripples on the sea. 

The Weekly press shall gladly stoop 

To bind thee up among its sheaves; 

The Daily steal thy shining ore, 
To gild its leaden leaves. 

Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak. 
Till distant shores shall hear the sound; 

Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe 
Fresh life on all around. 



96 TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER. 

Thou art the arena of the wise, 

The noiseless battle-ground of fame; 

The sky where halos may be wreathed 
Around the humblest name. 

Take, then, this treasure to thy trust, 
To win some idle reader's smile, 

Then fade and moulder in the dust. 

Or swell some bonfire's crackling pile! 



TO AN INSECT. 

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, 

Wherever thou art hid, 
Thou testy little dogmatist. 

Thou pretty Katydid! 
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — 

Old gentlefolks are they, — 
Thou say' St an undisputed thing 

In such a solemn way. 

Thou art a female, Katydid! 

I know it by the trill 
That quivers through thy piercing notes. 

So petulant and shrill, 
I think there is a knot of you 

Beneath the hollow tree, — 
A knot of spinster Katydids, — 

Do Katydids drink tea? 

Oh, tell me where did Katy live. 
And what did Katy do? 
97 



98 TO AN INSECT. 

And was she very fair and young, 
And yet so wicked, too? 

Did Katy love a naughty man, 

Or kiss more cheeks than one? 

I warrant Katy did no more 

Than many a Kate has done. 

Dear me! I'll tell you all about 

My fuss with little Jane, 
And Ann, with whom I used to walk 

So often down the lane, 
And all that tore their locks of black. 

Or wet their eyes of blue, — 
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 

What did poor Katy do? 

Ah, no! the living oak shall crash, 

That stood for ages still. 
The rock shall rend its mossy base 

And thunder down the hill. 
Before the little Katydid 

Shall add one word, to tell 
The mystic story of the maid 

Whose name she knows so well. 



TO AN INSECT. 99 

Peace to the ever murmuring race! 

And when the latest one 
Shall fold in death her feeble wings 

Beneath the autumn sun, 
Then shall she raise her fainting voice 

And lift her drooping lid, 
And then the child of future years 

Shall hear what Katy did. 



THE DILEMMA. 

Now, by the blessed Paphian queen, 
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen: 
By every name I cut on bark • 

Before my morning star grew dark; 
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart, 
By all that thrills the beating heart; 
The bright black eye, the melting blue, — 
I cannot choose between the two. 

I had a vision in my dreams; — 
I saw a row of twenty beams; 
From every beam a rope was hung, 
In every rope a lover swung; 
I asked the hue of every eye. 
That bade each luckless lover die; 
Ten shadowy lips said, heavenly blue, 
And ten accused the darker hue. 

I asked a matron, which she deemed 

With fairest light of beauty beamed; 
100 



THE DILEMMA. 101 

She answered, some thought both were fair, — 
Give her blue eyes and golden hair. 
I might have liked her judgment well, 
But, as she spoke, she rung the bell. 
And all her girls, nor small nor few. 
Came marching in, — their eyes were blue. 

I asked a maiden; back she flung 

The locks that round her forehead hung. 

And turned her eye, a glorious one, 

Bright as a diamond in the sun, 

On me, until beneath its rays 

I felt as if my hair would blaze; 

She liked all eyes but eyes of green; 

She looked at me; what could she mean? 

Ah! many lids Love lurks between, 
Nor heeds the coloring of his screen; 
And when his random arrows fly. 
The victim falls, but knows not why. 
Gaze not upon his shield of jet, 
The shaft upon the string is set; 
Look not beneath his azure veil. 
Though every limb were cased in mail. 



102 THE DILEMMA, 

Well, both might make a martyr break 
The chain that bound him to the stake; 
And both, with but a single ray, 
Can melt our very hearts away; 
And both, when balanced, hardly seem 
To stir the scales, or rock the beam; 
But that is dearest, all the while, 
That wears for us the sweetest smile. 



MY AUNT. 

My aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 

Long years have o'er her flown; 
Yet still she strains the aching clasp 

That binds her virgin zone; 
I know it hurts her, — though she looks 

As cheerful as she can; 
Her waist is ampler than her life, 

For life is but a span. 

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! 

Her hair is almost gray; 
Why will she train that winter curl 

In such a spring-like way? 
How can she lay her glasses down, 

And say she reads as well, 
When, through a double convex lens, 

She just makes out to spell? 

Her father, — grandpapa ! forgive 
This erring lip its smiles, — 
103 



104 MY AUNT. 

Vowed she should make the finest girl. 

Within a hundred miles; 
He sent her to a stylish school; 

'Twas in her thirteenth June; 
And with her, as the rules required, 

"Two towels and a spoon." 

They braced my aunt against a board, 

To make her straight and tall; 
They laced her up, they starved her down, 

To make her light and small; 
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, 

They screwed it up with pins; — 
Oh, never mortal suffered more 

In penance for her sins. 

So, when my precious aunt was done, 

My grandsire brought her back; 
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth 

Might follow on the track;) 
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook 

Some powder in his pan, 
"What could this lovely creature do 

Against a desperate man ! " 



MY AUNT. 105 

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, 

Nor bandit cavalcade, 
Tore from the trembling father's arms 

His all-accomplished maid. 
For her how happy had it been! 

And Heaven had spared to me 
To see one sad, imgathered rose 

On my ancestral tree. 



THE TOADSTOOL. 

There's a thing that grows by the fainting 

flower, 
And springs in the shade of the lady's bower; 
The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale, 
When they feel its breath in the summer gale, 
And the tulip curls its leaves in pride, 
And the blue-eyed violet starts aside; 
But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare, 
For what does the honest toadstool care? 

She does not glow in a painted vest. 
And she never blooms on the maiden's breast; 
But she comes, as the saintly sisters do, . 
In a modest suit of a Quaker hue. 
And, when the stars in the evening skies 
Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes, 
The toad comes out from his hermit cell, 
The tale of his faithful love to tell. 



THE TOADSTOOL 107 

Oh, there is light in her lover's glance, 
That flies to her heart like a silver lance; 
His breeches are made of spotted skin, 
His jacket is tight, and his pumps are thin; 
In a cloudless night you may hear his song. 
As its pensive melody floats along. 
And, if you will look by the moonlight fair, 
The trembling form of the toad is there. 

And he twines his arms round her slender stem. 
In the shade of her velvet diadem; 
But she turns away in her maiden shame. 
And will not breathe on the kindling flame; 
He sings*at her feet through the livelong night. 
And creeps to his cave at the break of light; 
And whenever he comes to the air above, 
His throat is swelling with baffled love. 



THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS.* 

It was not many centuries since, 

When, gathered on the moonlit green, 

Beneath the Tree of Liberty, 

A ring of weeping sprites were seen. 

The freshman's lamp had long been dim, 
The voice of busy day was mute. 

And tortured melody had ceased 

Her sufferings on the evening flute, 

f 

They met not as they once had met, 

To laugh o'er many a jocund tale; 
But every pulse was beating low, 

*And every cheek was cold and pale. 

There rose a fair but faded one. 

Who oft had cheered them with her song; 
She waved a mutilated arm, 

And silence held the listening throng. 

* Written after a general pruning of the trees around 
Harvard College. 

108 



THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS. 109 

"Sweet friends/' the gentle nymph began, 
"From opening bud to withering leaf, 

One common lot has bound us all, 
In every change of joy and grief. 

"While all around has felt decay, 

We rose in ever living prime. 
With broader shade and fresher green, 

Beneath the crumbling step of Time. 

"When often by our feet has past 

Some biped, nature's walking whim. 

Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape, 
Or lopped away one crooked limb? 

"Go on, fair Science; soon to thee 
Shall Nature yield her idle boast; 

Her vulgar fingers formed a tree. 

But thou hast trained it to a post. 

"Go paint the birch's silver rind. 

And quilt the peach with softer down; 

Up with the willow's trailing threads, 

Off with the sunflower's radiant crown! 



110 THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS. 

"Go, plant the lily on the shore, 

And set the rose among the waves, 

And bid the tropic bud unbind 
Its silken zone in arctic caves; 

"Bring bellows for the panting winds, 
Hang up a lantern by the moon, 

And give the nightingale a fife, 
And lend the eagle a balloon! 

"I cannot smile, — the tide of scorn, 

That rolled through every bleeding vein. 

Comes kindling fiercer as it flows 

Back to its burning source again. 

"Again in every quivering leaf 

That moment's agony I feel. 
When limbs, that spurned the northern blast, 

Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel. 

"A curse upon the wretch who dared 
To crop us with his felon saw! 

May every fruit his lip shall taste 
Lie like a bullet in his maw. 



THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS, HI 

"In ever julep that he drinks, 

May gout, and bile, and headache be; 
And when he strives to calm his pain, 

May colic mingle with his tea. 

"May nightshade cluster round his path, 
And thistles shoot, and brambles cling; 

May blistering ivy scorch his veins. 

And dogwood burn, and nettles sting. 

"On him may never shadow fall, 

When fever racks his throbbing brow, 

And his last shilling buy a rope 

To hang him on my highest bough!" 

She spoke; — the morning's herald beam 
Sprang from the bosom of the sea. 

And every mangled sprite returned 
In sadness to her wounded tree.* 



* A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found 
in the works of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was 
borrowed ; although I was as much surprised as amused to 
meet with it some time after writing the preceding lines. 



THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. 

There was a sound of hurrying feet, 
A tramp on echoing stairs, 

There was a rush along the aisles,— 
It was the hour of prayers. 

And on, like Ocean's midnight wave, 
The current rolled along, 

When, suddenly, a stranger form 
Was seen amidst the throng. 

He was a dark and swarthy man, 

That uninvited guest; 
A faded coat of bottle green 

Was buttoned round his breast. 

There was not one among them all 
Could say from whence he came; 

Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man. 
Could tell that stranger's name. 
112 



THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. 113 

All silent as the sheeted dead, 

In spite of sneer and frown, 
Fast by a gray-haired senior*s side 

He sat him boldly down. 

There was a look of horror flashed 

From out the tutor's eyes; 
When all around him rose to pray, 

The stranger did not rise! 

A murmur broke along the crowd, 

The prayer was at an end; 
With ringing heels and measured tread 

A hundred forms descend. 

Through sounding aisles, o'er grating stair. 

The long procession poured, 
Till all were gathered on the seats 

Around the Commons board. 

That fearful stranger! down he sat, 

Unasked, yet undismayed; 
And on his lip a rising smile 

Of scorn or pleasure played. 



114 THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. 

He took his hat and hung it up, 

With slow but earnest air; 
He stripped his coat from off his back, 

And placed it on a chair. 

Then from his nearest neighbor's side 

A knife and plate he drew; 
And, reaching out his hand again, 

He took his teacup too. 

How fled the sugar from the bowl! 

How sunk the azure cream! 
They vanished like the shapes that float 

Upon a summer's dream. 

A long, long draught, — an outstretched hand, 
And crackers, toast, and tea. 

They faded from the stranger's touch 
Like dew upon the sea. 

Then clouds were dark on many a brow. 

Fear sat upon their souls. 
And, in a bitter agony, 

They clasped their buttered rolls. 

t 



THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. 115 

A whisper trembled through the crowd, — 
Who could the stranger be? 

And some were silent, for they thought 
A cannibal was he. 

What if the creature should arise, 
For he was stout and tall, — 

And swallow down a sophomore. 

Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all! 

All sullenly the stranger rose; 

They sat in mute despair; 
He took his hat from off the peg, 

His coat from off the chair. 

Four freshmen fainted on the seat. 
Six swooned upon the floor; 

Yet on the fearful being passed, 
And shut the chapel door. 

There is full many a starving man, 

That walks in bottle green. 
But never more that hungry one 

In Commons-hall was seen. 



116 THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. 

Yet often at the sunset hour, 
When tolls the evening bell, 

The freshman lingers on the steps. 
That frightful tale to tell. 



THE SPECTRE PIG. 

A BALLAD. 

It was the stalwart butcher man, 
That knit his swarthy brow, 

And said the gentle Pig must die, 
And sealed it with a vow. 

And oh! it was the gentle Pig 

Lay stretched upon the ground, 

And ah ! it was the cruel knife 
His little heart that found. 

They took him then, those wicked men, 
They trailed him all along; 

They put a stick between his lips. 
And through his heels a thong; 

And round and round an oaken beam 
A hempen cord they flung, 

And, like a mighty pendulum. 
All solemnly he swung! 
117 



118 THE SPECTRE PIG. 

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man, 
And think what thou hast done, 

And read thy catechism well. 
Thou bloody-minded one; 

For if his sprite should walk by night, 

It better were for thee, 
That thou wert mouldering in the ground. 

Or bleaching in the sea. 

It was the savage butcher then, 
That made a mock of sin. 

And swore a very wicked oath, 
He did not care a pin. 

It was the butcher's youngest son, — 
His voice was broke with sighs, 

And with his pocket handkerchief 
He wiped his little eyes; 

All young and ignorant was he. 

But innocent and mild. 
And, in his soft simplicity, 

Out spoke the tender child; — 



THE SPECTRE PIG, 119 

"O father, father, list to me; 

The Pig is deadly sick. 
And men have hung him by his heels, 

And fed him with a stick.'* 

It was the bloody butcher then, 
That laughed as he would die, 

Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child, 
And bid him not to cry; — 

"O Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig, 

That thou shouldst weep and wail? 

Come, bear thee like a butcher's child, 
And thou shalt have his tail!'* 

It was the butcher's daughter then, 

So slender and so fair. 
That sobbed as if her heart would break, 

And tore her yellow hair; 

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone, — 
Fast fell the tear-drops big; — 

"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas! 

The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!" 



120 THE SPECTRE PIG. 

Then did her wicked father's lips 

Make merry with her woe, 
And call her many a naughty name, 

Because she whimpered so. 

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones, 

In vain your tears are shed, 
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand, 

Ye cannot soothe the dead. 

The bright sun folded on his breast 

His robes of rosy flame, 
And softly over all the west 

The shades of .evening came. 

He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs 

Were busy with his dreams; 
Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks. 

Wide yawned their mortal seams. 

The clock struck twelve; the Dead_hath heard; 

He opened both his eyes, 
And sullenly he shook h\s tail 

To lash the feeding flies. 



THE SPECTRE PIG. 121 

One quiver of the hempen cord, — 
One struggle and one bound, — 

With stiffened limb and leaden eye, 
The Pig was on the ground! 

And straight towards the sleeper's house 

His fearful Way he wended; 
And hooting owl, and hovering bat, 

On midnight wing attended. 

Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch, 

And open swung the door. 
And little mincing feet were heard 

Pat, pat along the floor. 

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor. 

And two upon the bed; 
And they are breathing side by side. 

The living and the dead! 

"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man! 

What makes thy cheek so pale? 
Take hold ! take hold ! thou dost not fear 

To clasp a spectre's tail?" 



122 THE SPECTRE PIG. 

Untwisted every winding coil; 

The shuddering wretch took hold, 
All like an icicle it seemed, 

So tapering and so cold. 

"Thou com' St with me, thou butcher man!" — 

He Strives to loose his grasp, 
But, faster than the clinging vine, 

Those twining spirals clasp. 

And open, open swung the door, 

And, fleeter than the wind, 
The shadowy spectre swept before. 

The butcher trailed behind. 

Fast fled the darkness of the night. 
And morn rose faint and dim; 

They called full loud, they knocked full long, 
They did not waken him. 

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam, 

A trampled pathway ran; 
A ghastly shape was swinging there, — • 

It was the butcher man. 



LINES BY A CLERK. 

Oh! I did love her dearly, 

And gave her toys and rings, 
And I thought she meant sincerely, 

When she took my pretty things; 
But her heart has grown as icy 

As a fountain in the fall. 
And her love, that was so spicy. 

It did not last at all. 

I gave her once a locket, 

It was filled wdth my own hair, 
And she put it in her pocket 

With very special care. 
But a jeweller has got it, — 

He offered it to me. 
And another that is not it 

Around her neck I see. 

For my cooings and my billings 
I do not now complain, 
123 



124 LINES BY A CLERK. 

But my dollars and my shillings 

Will never come again; 
They were earned with toil and sorrow, 

But I never told her that, 
And now I have to borrow, 

And want another hat. 

Think, think, thou cruel Emma, 

When thou shalt hear my woe, 
And know my sad dilemma, 

That thou hast made it so. 
See, see my beaver rusty. 

Look, look upon this hole, 
This coat is dim and dusty; 

Oh, let it rend thy soul! 

Before the gates of fashion 

I daily bent my knee. 
But I sought the shrine of passion. 

And found my idol, — thee; 
Though never love intenser 

Had bowed a soul before it, 
Thine eye was on the censer, 

And not the hand that bore it. 



REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDES- 
TRIAN. 

I SAW the curl of his waving lash, 

And the glance of his knowing eye, 

And I knew that he thought he was cutting a 
dash. 
As his steed went thundering by. 

And he may ride in the rattling gig, 

Or flourish the Stanhope gay. 
And dream that he looks exceeding big 

To the people that walk in the way; 

But he shall think, when the night is still, 
On the stable-boy's gathering numbers, 

And the ghost of many a veteran bill 
Shall hover around his slumbers; 

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep, 
And constables cluster around him, 

And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep 
Where their spectre eyes have found him! 
126 



126 REFLECTIONS OF A PROUP PEDESTRIAN, 

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong, 

And bid your steed go faster; 
He does not know, as he scrambles along, 

That he has a fool for his master; 

And hurry away on your lonely ride, 

Nor deign from the mire to save me; 

I will paddle it stoutly at your side 

With the tandem that nature gave me! 



THE POET'S LOT. 

What is a poet's love? — 
To write a girl a sonnet, 

To get a ring, or some such thing, 
And fustianize upon it. 

What is a poet's fame? — 

Sad hints about his reason, 

And sadder praise from garreteers, 
To be returned in season. 

Where go the poet's lines? — 
Answer, ye evening tapers! 

Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, 
Speak from your folded papers! 

Child of the ploughshare, smile; 

Boy of the counter, grieve not. 
Though muses round thy trundle-bed 

Their broidered tissue weave not. 
127 



128 THE POET'S LOT. 

The poet's future holds 

No civic wreath above him; 

Nor slated roof, or varnished chaise, 
Nor wife nor child to love him. 

Maid of the village inn, 

Whoworkest woe on satin 

(The grass in black, the graves in green, 
The epitaph in Latin), 

Trust not to them who say. 

In stanzas, they adore thee; 

Oh rather sleep in churchyard clay. 
With urns and cherubs o'er thee! 



DAILY TRIALS. 

BY A SENSITIVE MAN. 

Oh there are times 
When all this fret and tumult that we hear 
Do seem more stale than to the sexton's ear 

His own dull chimes. 

Ding dong! ding dong! 
The world is in a simmer like a sea 
Over a pent volcano, — woe is me 

All the day long! 

From crib to shroud ! 
Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby, 
And friends in boots tramp round us as we die, 

Snuffling aloud. 

At morning's call 
The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun, 
And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one. 

Give answer all. 

129 



130 DAILY TRIALS. 

When evening dim 
Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul 
Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, — 

These are our hymn. 

Women, with tongues 
Like polar needles, ever on the jar, — 
Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep foun- 
tains are 

Within their lungs. 

Children, with drums 
Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass. 
Peripatetics with a blade of grass 

Between their thumbs. 

Vagrants, whose arts 
Have caged some devil in their mad machine. 
Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans 
between, 

Come out by starts. 

Cockneys that kill 
Thin horses of a Sunday, — men, with clams. 
Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams 

From hill to hill. 



DAILY TRIALS. 131 

Soldiers, with guns 
Making a nuisance of the blessed air, 
Child-crying bellmen, children in despair 

Screeching for buns. 

Storms, thunders, waves! 
Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill; 
Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still 

But in their graves. 



EVENING. 



BY A TAILOR. 



Day hath put on his jacket, and around 
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. 
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, 
That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, 
And hold communion with the things about me. 
Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid. 
That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! 
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken 

threads. 
Do make a music like to rustling satin. 
As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. 

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,. 
So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? 
It is, it is that deeply injured flower, 
Which boys do flout us with; — but yet I love 
thee, 

132 



EVENING. 133 

Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. 
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright 
As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath 
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; 
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, 
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences. 
And growing portly in his sober garments. 

Is that a swan that rides upon the water? 
Oh, no, it is that other gentle bird, 
Which is the patron of our noble calling, 
I well remember, in my early years. 
When these young hands first closed upon a 

goose ; 
I have a scar upon my thimble finger, 
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. 
My father was a tailor, and his father. 
And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors; 
They had an ancient goose, — it was an heir- 
loom 
From some remoter tailor of our race. 
It happened I did see it on a time 
When none was near, and I did deal with it. 
And it did burn me, — oh, most fearfully! 



134 EVENING, 

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, 
And leap elastic from the level counter, 
Leaving the petty grievances of earth, 
The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, 
And all the needles that do wound the spirit. 
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. 
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress. 
Lays bare her shady bosom; — I can feel 
With all around me; — I can hail the flowers 
That sprig earth's mantle, — and yon quiet 

bird, 
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. 
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, 
Where Nature stows away her loveliness. 
But this unnatural posture of the legs 
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go 
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion. 



THE DORCHESTER GIANT. 

There was a giant in time of old, 

A mighty one was he; 
He had a wife, but she was a scold, 
So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold; 

And he had children three. 

It happened to be an election day, 

And the giants were choosing a king; 
The people were not democrats then, 
They did not talk of the rights of men, 
And all that sort of thing. 

Then the giant took his children three 

And fastened them in the pen; 
The children roared; quoth the giant, "Be 

still!" 
And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill 
Rolled back the sound again. 
136 



136 THE DORCHESTER GIANT. 

Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with 
plums, 

As big as the State-House dome; 
Quoth he, "There's something for you to eat; 
So stop your mouths with your 'lection treat, 

And wait till your dad comes home." 

So the giant pulled him a chestnut stout, 

And whittled the boughs away; 
The boys and their mother set up a shout, 
Said he, "You're in, and you can't get out, 
Bellow as loud as you may." 

Off he went, and he growled a tune 

As he strode the fields along; 
'Tis said a buffalo fainted away, 
And fell as cold as a lump of clay, 

When he heard the giant's song. 

But whether the story's true or not, 

It is not for me to show; 
There's many a thing that's twice as queer 
In somebody's lectures that we hear, 

And those are true, you know. 



THE DORCHESTER GIANT, 137 

What are those lone ones doing now, 
The wife and the children sad? 

Oh! they are in a terrible rout, 

Screaming, and throwing their pudding about, 
Acting as they were mad. 

They flung it over to Roxbury hills, 

They flung it over the plain. 
And all over Milton and Dorchester too 
Great lumps of pudding the giants threw; 

They tumbled as thick as rain. 



Giant and mammoth have passed away. 

For ages have floated by; 
The suet is hard as a marrow bone, 
And every plum is turned to a stone, 

But there the puddings lie. 

And if, some pleasant afternoon. 

You'll ask me out to ride. 
The whole of the story I will tell. 
And you shall see where the puddings fell, 

And pay for the punch beside. 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN.'^ 

IN THE ATHEN^UM GALLERY. 

It may be so, — perhaps thou hast 
A warm and loving heart; 

I will not blame thee for thy face, 
Poor devil as thou art. 

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, 
Unsightly though it be, — 

In spite of all the cold world's scorn, 
It may be much to thee. 

Those eyes, — among thine elder friends 
Perhaps they pass for blue; — 

No matter, — if a man can see, 
What more have eyes to do? 

Thy mouth, — that fissure in thy face 
By something like a chin, — 

May be a very useful place 
To put thy victual in. 
138 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF ''A GENTLEMAN:' 139 

I know thou hast a wife at home, 

I know thou hast a child, 
By that subdued, domestic smile 

Upon thy features mild. 

That wife sits fearless by thy side, 

That cherub on thy knee; 
They do not shudder at thy looks, 

They do not shrink from thee. 

Above thy mantel is a hook, — 

A portrait once was there; 
It was thine only ornament, — 

Alas! that hook is bare. 

She begged thee not to let it go, 

She begged thee all in vain; 
She wept, — and breathed a trembling prayer 

To meet it safe again. 

It was a bitter sight to see 

That picture torn away; 
It was a solemn thought to think 

What all her friends would say! 



140 TO THE PORTRAIT OF ''A GENTLEMAN:' 

And often in her calmer hours, 
And in her happy dreams, 

Upon its long-deserted hook 
The absent portrait seems. 

Thy wretched infant turns his head 

In melancholy wise, 
And looks to meet the placid stare 

Of those unbending eyes. 

I never saw thee, lovely one, — 

Perchance I never may; 
It is not often that we cross 

Such people in our way; 

But if we meet in distant years. 
Or on some foreign shore, 

Sure I can take my Bible oath, 
I*ve seen that face before. 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY." 

IN THE ATHENiEUM GALLERY. 

Well, Miss, I wonder where you live, 

I wonder what's your name, 
I wonder how you came to be 

In such a stylish frame; 
Perhaps you were a favorite child, 

Perhaps an only one; 
Perhaps your friends were not aware 

You had your portrait done ! 

Yet you must be a harmless soul; 

I cannot think that Sin 
Would care to throw his loaded dice, 

With such a stake to win; 
I cannot think you would provoke 

, ..The poet's wicked pen, 
Or make young women bite their lips, 
Or ruin fine young men. 
141 



142 TO THE PORTRAIT OF "^ LADYr 

Pray, did you ever hear, my love. 

Of boys that go about. 
Who, for a very trifling sum 

Will snip one's picture out? 
I'm not averse to red and white. 

But all things have their place, 
I think a profile cut in black 

Would suit your style of face! 

I love sweet features; I will own 

That I should like myself 
To see my portrait on a wall, 

Or bust upon a shelf; 
But nature sometimes makes one up 

Of such sad odds and ends. 
It really might be quite as well 

Hushed up among one's friends! 



THE COMET. 

The Comet! He is on his way, 

And singing as he flies; 
The whizzing planets shrink before 

The spectre of the skies; 
Ah ! well may regal orbs burn blue. 

And satellites turn pale, 
Ten million cubic miles of head, 

Ten billion leagues of tail! 

On, on by whistling spheres of light, 

He flashes and he flames; 
He turns not to the left nor right. 

He asks them not their names; 
One spurn from his demoniac heel, — 

Away, away they fly. 
Where darkness might be bottled up 

And sold for "Tyrian dye." 

And what would happen to the land. 
And how would look the sea, 
143 



144 THE COMET, 

If in the bearded devil's path 

Our earth should chance to be? 

Full hot and high the sea would boil, 
Full red the forests gleam; 

Methought I saw and heard it all 
In a dyspeptic dream! 

I saw a tutor take his tube 

The Comet's course to spy; 
I heard a scream, — the gathered rays 

Had stewed the tutor's eye; 
I saw a fort, — the soldiers all 

Were armed with goggles green; 
Pop cracked the guns! whiz flew the balls! 

Bang went the magazine! 

I saw a poet dip a scroll 

Each moment in a tub, 
I read upon the warping back, 

"The Dream of Beelzebub"; 
He could not see his verses burn, 

Although his brain was fried, 
And ever and anon he bent 

To wet them as they dried. 



THE COMET, 145 

I saw the scalding pitch roll down 

The crackling, sweating pines, 
And streams of smoke, like water-spouts, 

Burst through the rumbling mines; 
I asked the firemen why they made 

Such noise about the town; 
They answered not, — but all the while 

The brakes went up and down. 

I saw a roasting pullet sit 

Upon a baking tgg-, 
I saw a cripple scorch his hand 

Extinguishing his leg; 
I saw nine geese upon the wing 

Towards the frozen pole, 
And every mother's gosling fell 

Crisped to a crackling coal. 

I saw the ox that browsed the grass 
Writhe in the blistering rays. 

The herbage in his shrinking jaws 
Was all a fiery blaze; 

I saw huge fishes, boiled to rags. 
Bob through the bubbling brine; 



146 THE COMET. 

And thoughts of supper crossed my soul; 
I had been rash at mine. 

Strange sights ! strange sounds ! O fearful dream ! 

Its memory haunts me still, 
The steaming sea, the crimson glare. 

That wreathed each wooded hill; 
Stranger! if through thy reeling brain, 

Such midnight visions sweep 
Spare, spare, oh, spare thine evening meal, 

And sweet shall be thy sleep! 



A NOONTIDE LYRIC. 

The dinner-bell, the dinner-bell 

Is ringing loud and clear; 
Through hill and plain, through street and lane, 

It echoes far and near; 
From curtained hall, and whitewashed stall, 

Wherever men can hide. 
Like bursting waves from ocean caves, 

They float upon the tide. 

I smell the smell of roasted meat! 

I hear the hissing fry! 
The beggars know where they can go. 

But where, oh, where shall I? 
At twelve o'clock men took my hand. 

At two they only stare. 
And eye me with a fearful look, 

As if I were a bear! 

The poet lays his laurels down 
And hastens to his greens; 
147 



148 A NOONTIDE LYRIC. 

The happy tailor quits his goose, 
To riot on his beans; 

The weary cobbler snaps his thread, 
The printer leaves his pi; 

His very devil hath a home, 

But what, oh, what have 1? 

Methinks I hear an angel voice. 

That softly seems to say: 
"Pale stranger, all may yet be well, 

Then wipe thy tears away; 
Erect thy head, and cock thy hat, 

And follow me afar. 
And thou shalt have a jolly meal 

And charge it at the bar." 

I hear the voice! I go! I go! 

Prepare your meat and wine ! 
They little heed their future need. 

Who pay not when they dine. 
Give me to-day the rosy bowl. 

Give me one golden dream, — 
To-morrow kick away the stool. 

And dangle from the beam! 



THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the 

river-side, 
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was 

on the tide; 
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so 

straight and slim. 
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite 

to him. 

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely 

maid. 
Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the 

shade ; 
He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much 

as if to say, 
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all 

the folks away.'* 

149 



150 THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. 

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself 

said he, 
"I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear 

that folks should see; 
I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss 

his dear, 
Leander swam the Hellespont, — and I will 

swim this here." 

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed 

the shining stream. 
And he has clambered up the bank, all in the 

moonlight gleam; 
Oh, there were kisses sweet as dew, and words 

as soft as rain, — 
But they have heard her father's step, and in 

he leaps again! 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " Oh, what 

was that, my daughter?" 
" 'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into 

the water; " 
"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that 

paddles off so fast?" 
"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been 

a swimming past." 



THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. 151 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " Now bring 
me my harpoon ! 

I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow 
soon; '* 

Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow- 
white lamb, 

Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like 
sea-weed on a clam. 

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not 

from her swound. 
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the 

waves was drowned; 
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of 

their woe. 
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids 

down below. 



THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 

There are three ways in which men take 
One's money from his purse, 

And very hard it is to tell 

Which of the three is worse; 

But all of them are bad enough 
To make a body curse. 

You're riding out some pleasant day, 
And counting up your gains; 

A fellow jumps from out a bush. 
And takes your horse's reins, 

Another hints some words about 
A bullet in your brains. 

It's hard to meet such pressing friends 

In such a lonely spot; 
It's very hard to lose your cash, 

But harder to be shot; 
And so you take your wallet out. 

Though you would rather not. 
162 



THE MUSIC-GRINDERS, 153 

Perhaps you're going out to dine, — 

Some filthy creature begs 
You'll hear about the cannon-ball 

That carried off his pegs, 
And says it is a dreadful thing 

For men to lose their legs. 

He tells you of his starving wife, 

His children to be fed, 
Poor little, lovely innocents. 

All clamorous for bread, — 
And so you kindly help to put 

A bachelor to bed. 

You're sitting on your window-seat 

Beneath a cloudless moon; 
You hear a sound, that seems to wear 

The semblance of a tune, 
As if a broken fife should strive 

To drown a cracked bassoon. 

And nearer, nearer still, the tide 

Of music seems to come, 
There's something like a human voice, 

And something like a drum; 



154 THE MUSIC-GRINDERS, 

You sit in speechless agony, 
Until your ear is numb. 

Poor *^home, sweet home," should seem to be 

A very dismal place; 
Your "auld acquaintance," all at once. 

Is altered in the face; 
Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, 

Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. 

You think they are crusaders, sent 

From some infernal clime. 
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, 

And dock the tail of Rhyme, 
To crack the voice of Melody, 

And break the legs of Time. 

But hark! the air again is still, 

The music all is ground, 
And silence, like a poultice, comes 

To heal the blows of sound; 
It cannot be, — it is, — it is, — 

A hat is going round! 

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves 
A fracture in your jaw; 



THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 155 

And pay the owner of the bear, 

That stunned you with his paw, 

And buy the lobster, that has had 
Your knuckles in his claw; 

But if you are a portly man. 

Put on your fiercest frown. 
And talk about a constable 

To turn them out of town; 
Then close your sentence with an oath. 

And shut the window down! 

And if you are a slender man. 

Not big enough for that, 
Or, if you cannot make a speech, 

Because you are a flat, 
Go very quietly and drop 

A button in the hat! 



THE TREADMILL SONG. 

The stars are rolling in the sky, 

The earth rolls on below, 
And we can feel the rattling wheel 

Revolving as we go. 
Then tread away, my gallant boys. 

And make the axle fly; 
Why should not wheels go round about,. 

Like planets in the sky? 

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man. 

And stir your solid pegs! 
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend. 

And shake your spider legs; 
What though you're awkward at the trade. 

There's time enough to learn, — 
So lean upon the rail, my lad. 

And take another turn. 

They've built us up a noble wall. 
To keep the vulgar out; 
156 



THE TREADMILL SONG, 157 

We've nothing in the world to do, 

But just to walk about; 
So faster, now, you middle men, 

And try to beat the ends, — 
It's pleasant work to ramble round 

Among one's honest friends. 

Here, tread upon the long man's toes. 

He shan't be lazy here, — 
And punch the little fellow's ribs. 

And tweak that lubber's ear, — 
He's lost them both, — don't pull his hair. 

Because he wears a scratch. 
But poke him in the further eye, 

That isn't in the patch. 

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell, 

And so our work is done; 
It's pretty sport, — suppose we take 

A round or two for fun! 
If ever they should turn me out. 

When I have better grown. 
Now hang me, but I mean to have 

A treadmill of my own! 



THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 

I'm not a chicken; I have seen 

Full many a chill September, 
And though I was a youngster then, 

That gale I well remember; 
The day before, my kite-string snapped, 

And I, my kite pursuing, 
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;- 

For me two storms were brewing! 

It came as quarrels sometimes do. 

When married folks get clashing; 
There was a heavy sigh or two. 

Before the fire was flashing, — 
A little stir among the clouds. 

Before they rent asunder, — 
A little rocking of the trees. 

And then came on the thunder. 

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled. 
And how the shingles rattled! 
158 



THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 159 

And oaks were scattered on the ground 

As if the Titans battled; 
And all above was in a howl, 

And all below a clatter, — 
The earth was like a frying-pan. 

Or some such hissing matter. 

It chanced to be our washing-day, 

And all our things were drying: 
The storm came roaring through the lines, 

And set them all a flying; 
I saw the shirts and petticoats 

Go riding off like witches; 
I lost, ah ! bitterly I wept, — 

I lost my Sunday breeches! 

I saw them straddling through the air, 

Alas! too late to win them: 
I saw them chase the clouds as if 

The devil had been in them; 
They were my darlings and my pride. 

My boyhood's only riches, — 
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried, — 

"My breeches! O my breeches!" 



160 THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 

That night I saw them in my dreams, 

How changed from what I knew them! 
The dews had steeped their faded threads, 

The winds had whistled through them; 
I saw the wide and ghastly rents 

Where demon claws had torn them; 
A hole was in their amplest part, 

As if an imp had worn them. 

I have had many happy years, 

And tailors kind and clever, 
But those young pantaloons have gone 

Forever and forever! 
And not till fate has cut the last 

Of all my earthly stitches, 
This aching heart shall cease to mourn 

My loved, my long-lost breeches! 



THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. 

I WROTE some lines once on a time 
In wondrous merry mood, 

And thought, as usual, men would say 
They were exceeding good. 

They were so queer, so very queer, 
I laughed as I would die; 

Albeit, in the general way, 
A sober man am I. 

I called my servant, and he came; 

How kind it was of him. 
To mind a slender man like me, 

He of the mighty limb! 

"These to the printer," I exclaimed, 
And, in my humorous way, 

I added (as a trifling jest), 

"There'll be the devil to pay." 
161 



162 THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS, 

He took the paper, and I watched, 
And saw him peep within; 

At the first line he read, his face 
Was all upon the grin. 

He read the next; the grin grew broad, 
And shot from ear to ear; 

He read the third; a chuckling noise 
I now began to hear. 

The fourth; he broke into a roar; 

The fifth; his waistband split; 
The sixth; he burst five buttons off. 

And tumbled in a fit. 

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, 
I watched that wretched man. 

And since, I never dare to write 
As funny as I can. 



• 



THE HOT SEASON. 

The folks, that on the first of May 

Wore winter-coats and hose, 
Began to say, the first of June, 

"Good Lord! how hot it grows." 
At last two Fahrenheits blew up, 

And killed two children small, 
And one barometer shot dead 

A tutor with its ball! 

Now all day long the locusts sang 

Among the leafless trees; 
Three new hotels warped inside out, 

The pumps could only wheeze; 
And ripe old wine, that twenty years 

Had cobwebbed o'er in vain. 
Came spouting through the rotten corks, 

Like Jolys' best Champagne! 

The Worcester locomotives did 
Their trip in half an hour; 
103 



164 THE HOT SEASON. 

The Lowell cars ran forty miles 

Before they checked the power; 

Roll brimstone soon became a drug, 
And loco-focos fell; 

All asked for ice, but everywhere 
Saltpetre was to sell. 

Plump men of mornings ordered tights, 

But, ere the scorching noons. 
Their candle-moulds had grown as loose 

As Cossack pantaloons ! 
The dogs ran mad, — men could not try 

If water they would choose; 
A horse fell dead, — he only left 

Four red-hot, rusty shoes! 

But soon the people could not bear 

The slightest hint of fire; 
Allusions to caloric drew 

A flood of savage ire; 
The leaves on heat were all torn out 

From every book at school, 
And many blackguards kicked and caned, 

Because they said, — " Keep cool ! ' • 



THE HOT SEASON, 165 

The gas-light companies were mobbed, 

The bakers all were shot, 
The penny press began to talk 

Of Lynching Doctor Nott; 
And all about the warehouse steps 

Were angry men in droves, 
Crashing and splintering through the doors 

To smash the patent stoves! 

The abolition men and maids 

Were tanned to such a hue, 
You scarce could tell them from their friends 

Unless their eyes were blue; 
And, when I left, society 

Had burst its ancient guards, 
And Brattle Street and Temple Place 

Were interchanging cards. 



POEMS 

ADDED SINCE THE FIRST EDITION 



DEPARTED DAYS. 

Yes, dear departed, cherished days, 

Could Memory's hand restore 
Your morning light, your evening rays, 

From Time's gray urn once more, — 
Then might this restless heart be still, 

This straining eye might close. 
And Hope her fainting pinions fold, 

While the fair phantoms rose. 

But, like a child in ocean's arms, 

We strive against the stream, 
Each moment farther from the shore 

Where life's young fountains gleam; - 
Each moment fainter wave the fields. 

And wider rolls the sea; 
The mist grows dark, — the sun goes down, ■ 

Day breaks, — and where are we ? 
169 



THE STEAMBOAT. 

See how yon flaming herald treads 

The ridged and rolling waves, 
As, crashing o'er their crested heads. 

She bows her surly slaves! 
With foam before and fire behind. 

She rends the clinging sea. 
That flies before the roaring wind, 

Beneath her hissing lee. 

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers^ 

With heaped and glistening bells, 
Falls round her fast, in ringing showers. 

With every wave that swells; 
And, burning o'er the midnight deep. 

In lurid fringes thrown. 
The living gems of ocean sweep 

Along her flashing zone. 

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 
And smoking torch on high, 
170 



THE STEAMBOAT, 171 

When winds are loud, and billows reel, 

She thunders foaming by; 
When seas are silent and serene, 

With even beam she glides. 
The sunshine glimmering through the green 

That skirts her gleaming sides. 

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 

She veils her shadowy form. 
The beating of her restless heart 

Still sounding through the storm; 
Now answers, like a courtly dame. 

The reddening surges o'er, 
With flying scarf of spangled flame, 

The Pharos of the shore. 

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep. 

Who trims his narrowed sail; 
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 

Her broad breast to the gale; 
And many a foresail, scooped and strained, 

Shall break from yard and stay, 
Before this smoky wreath has stained 

The rising mist of day. 



172 THE STEAMBOAT. 

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, 

I see yon quivering mast; 
The black throat of the hunted cloud 

Is panting forth the blast! 
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff, 

The giant surge shall fling 
His tresses o*er yon pennon staff, 

White as the sea-bird's wing! 

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep; 

Nor wind nor wave shall tire 
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap 

With floods of living fire; 
Sleep on, — and, when the morning light 

Streams o'er the shining bay, 
Oh, think of those for whom the night 

Shall never wake in day! 



THE PARTING WORD. 

I MUST leave thee, lady sweet! 
Months shall waste before we meet; 
Winds are fair, and sails are spread, 
Anchors leave their ocean bed; 
Ere this shining day grow dark, 
Skies shall gird my shoreless bark; 
Through thy tears, O lady mine, 
Read thy lover's parting line. 

When the first sad sun shall set, 
Thou shalt tear thy locks of jet; 
When the morning star shall rise 
Thou shalt wake with weeping eyes; 
When the second sun goes down, 
Thou more tranquil shalt be grown. 
Taught too well that wild despair 
Dims thine eyes, and spoils thy hair. 

All the first unquiet week 
Thou shalt wear a smileless cheek; 
173 



174 THE PARTING IVORD, 

In the first month's second half 
Thou shalt once attempt to laugh; 
Then in Pickwick thou shalt dip, 
Slightly puckering round the lip, 
Till at last, in sorrow's spite, 
Samuel makes thee laugh outright. 

While the first seven mornings last, 
Round thy chamber bolted fast. 
Many a youth shall fume and pout, 
"Hang the girl, she's always out!'* 
While the second week goes round. 
Vainly shall they ring and pound; 
When the third week shall begin, 
"Martha, let the creature in." 

Now once more the flattering throng 
Round thee flock with smile and song, 
But thy lips, unweaned as yet. 
Lisp, " Oh, how can I forget ! '* 
Men and devils both contrive 
Traps for catching girls alive; 
Eve was duped, and Helen kissed, — 
How, oh, how can you resist? 



THE PARTING IVORD, 175 

First be careful of your fan, 
Trust it not to youth or man; 
Love has filled a pirate's sail 
Often with its perfumed gale. 
Mind your kerchief most of all, 
Fingers touch when kerchiefs fall; 
Shorter ell than mercers clip, 
Is the space from hand to lip. 

Trust not such as talk in tropes, 
Full of pistols, daggers, ropes; 
All the hemp that Russia bears 
Scarce would answer lovers* prayers; 
Never thread was spun so fine. 
Never spider stretched the line, 
Would not hold the lovers true 
That would really swing for you. 

Fiercely some shall storm and swear. 
Beating breasts in black despair; 
Others murmur with a sigh. 
You must melt or they will die; 
Painted words on empty lies, 
Grubs with wings like butterflies; 



176 THE PARTING IVORD. 

Let them die, and welcome, too; 
Pray what better could they do? 

Fare thee well, if years efface 
From thy heart love's burning trace, 
Keep, oh keep that hallowed seat 
From the tread of vulgar feet; 
If the blue lips of the sea 
Wait with icy kiss for me, 
Let not thine forget the vow. 
Sealed how often. Love, as now! 



SONG, 

WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES 
DICKENS, BY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEB- 
RUARY I, 1842. 

The stars their early vigils keep, 

The silent hours are near ^ 

When drooping eyes forget to weep, — 

Yet still we linger here; 
And what, — the passing churl may ask, — ► 

Can claim such wondrous power. 
That Toil forgets his wonted task. 

And Love his promised hour? 

The Irish harp no longer thrills. 

Or breathes a fainter tone; 
The clarion blast from Scotland's hills 

Alas! no more is blown; 
And Passion's burning lip bewails 

Her Harold's wasted fire. 
Still lingering o'er the dust that veils 

The Lord of England's lyre. 
177 



178 SONG. 

But grieve not o'er its broken strings, 

Nor think its soul hath died, 
While yet the lark at heaven's gate sings 

As once o'er Avon's side; — 
While gentle summer sheds her bloom, 

And dewy blossoms wave. 
Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb 

And Nelly's nameless grave. 

t 

Thou glorious island of the sea! 

Though wide the wasting flood 
That parts our distant land from thee, 

We claim thy generous blood; 
Nor o'er thy far horizon springs 

One hallowed star of fame. 
But kindles, like an angel's wrings. 

Our western skies in flame ! 



LINES 

RECITED AT THE BERKSHIRE FESTIVAL. 

Come back to your mother, ye children, for 

shame, 
Who have wandered like truants, for riches or 

fame! 
With a smile on her face, and a sprig in her cap, 
She calls you to feast from her bountiful lap. 

Come out from your alleys, your courts, and 

your lanes. 
And breathe, like young eagles, the air of our 

plains; 
Take a whiff from our fields, and your excellent 

wives 
Will declare it's all nonsense insuring your lives. 

Come you of the law, who can talk, if you 

please, 
Till the man in the moon will allow it's a 

cheese, 

179 



180 LINES, 

And leave "the old lady, that never tells lies," 
To sleep with her handkerchief over her eyes. 

Ye healers of men, for a moment decline 
Your feats in the rhubarb and ipecac line; 
While you shut up your turnpike, your neigh- 
bors can go 
The old roundabout road, to the regions below. 

You clerk, on whose ears are a couple of pens. 
And whose head is an ant-hill of units and 

tens; 
Though Plato denies you, we welcome you still 
As a featherless biped, in spite of your quill. 

Poor drudge of the city! how happy he feels. 
With the burs on his legs, and the grass at his 

heels ! 
No dodger behind, his bandannas to share, 
No constable grumbling, "You mustn't walk 

there ! " 

In yonder green meadow, to memory dear. 
He slaps a mosquito and brushes a tear; 



LINES. 181 

The dewdrops hang round him on blossoms 

and shoots, 
He breathes but one sigh for his youth and his 

boots. 

There stands the old schoolhouse, hard by the 

old church; 
That tree at its side had the flavor of birch; 
Oh, sweet were the days of his juvenile tricks, 
Though the prairie of youth had so many "big 

licks." 

By the side of yon river he weeps and he 

slumps, 
The boots fill with water, as if they were 

pumps; 
Till, sated with rapture, he steals to his bed, 
With a glow in his heart and a cold in his 

head. 

'Tis past, — he is dreaming, — I see him again; 
The ledger returns as by legerdemain; 
His neckcloth is damp with an easterly flaw. 
And he holds in his fingers an omnibus straw. 



182 LINES, 

He dreams the chill gust is a blossomy gale, 
That the straw, is a rose from his dear native 

vale; 
And murmurs, unconscious of space and of 

time, 
"A I. Extra-super. Ah, isn't it prime!" 

Oh, what are the prizes we perish to win 

To the first little "shiner" we caught with a 

pin! 
No soil upon earth is so dear to our eyes 
As the soil we first stirred in terrestrial pies! 

Then come from all parties, and parts, to our 

feast; 
Though not at the "Astor," we'll give you at 

least 
A bite at an apple, a seat on the grass. 
And the best of old — water — at nothing a 

glass. 



VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER. 

*. B. K. SOCIETY, 1844. 

I WAS thinking last night, as I sat in the cars, 
With the charmingest prospect of cinders and 

stars. 
Next Thursday is — bless me! — how hard it 

will be, 
If that cannibal president calls upon me I 

There is nothing on earth that he will not 

devour, 
From a tutor in seed to a freshman in flower; 
No sage is too gray, and no youth is too 

green. 
And you can't be too plump, though you're 

never too lean. 

While others enlarge on the boiled and the 

roast. 
He serves a raw clergyman up with a toast, 
183 



184 VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER. 

Or catches some doctor, quite tender and 

young, 
And basely insists on a bit of his tongue. 

Poor victim, prepared for his classical spit, 
With a stuffing of praise, and a basting of 

wit, 
You may twitch at your collar, and wrinkle 

your brow, 
But you're up on your legs, and you're in for 

it now. 

Oh, think of your friends, — they are waiting 

to hear 
Those jokes that are thought so remarkably 

queer; 
And all the Jack Horners of metrical buns 
Are prying and fingering to pick out the puns. 

Those thoughts which, like chickens, will 

always thrive best 

When reared by the heat of the natural nest. 

Will perish if hatched from their embryo 

dream 

In the mist and the glow of convivial steam. 



VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER, 185 

Oh pardon me, then, if I meekly retire, 
With a very small flash of ethereal fire; 
No rubbing will kindle your Lucifer match, 
If the fiz does not follow the primitive scratch. 

Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the 

while. 
With your lips double reefefl in a snug little 

smile, — 
I leave you two fables, both drawn from the 

deep, — 
The shells you can drop, but the pearls you 

may keep. 

* # ^ * * * * 

The fish called the Flounder, perhaps you may 

know. 
Has one side for use and another for show; 
One side for the public, a delicate brown. 
And one that is white, which he always keeps 

down. 

A very young flounder, the flattest of flats 
(And they're none of them thicker than opera 
hats). 



186 VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER. 

Was speaking more freely than charity taught 
Of a friend and relation that just had been 
, caught. 

" My ! what an exposure ! just see what a sight ! 
I blush for my race, — he is showing his white ! 
Such spinning and wriggling, — why, what does 

he wish? • 
How painfully small to respectable fish ! *' 

Then said an old Sculpin, — " My freedom 

excuse, 
But you're playing the cobbler with holes in 

your shoes; 
Your brown side is up, — but just wait till 

you're tried. 
And you'll find that all flounders are white on 

one side." 

^ ^ ^ ^ ■* ^ * 

There's a slice near the Pickerel's pectoral 

fins. 
Where the thorax leaves off and the venter 

begins; 



VERSES FOR AFTER-DINNER. 187 

Which his brother, survivor of fish-hooks and 

lines, 
Though fond of his family, never declines. 

He loves his relations; he feels they'll be 

missed; 
But that one little tit-bit he cannot resist; 
So your bait may be swallowed, no matter how 

fast. 
For you catch your next fish with a piece of 

the last. 

And thus, O survivor, whose merciless fate 
Is to take the next hook with the president's 

bait, 
You are lost while you snatch from the end of 

his line 
The morsel he rent from this bosom of mine ! 



SONG, 

FOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH LADIES 
WERE INVITED. (NEW YORK MERCANTILE LI- 
BRARY ASSOCL^^TION, NOVEMBER, 1 842.) 

A HEALTH to dear woman! She bids us un- 
twine, 

From the cup it encircles, the fast-clinging 
vine; 

But her cheek in its crystal with pleasure will 
glow, 

And mirror its bloom in the bright wave below. 

A health to sweet woman! The days are no 

more 
When she watched for her lord till the revel 

was o'er. 
And smoothed the white pillow, and blushed 

when he came. 
As she pressed her cold lips on his forehead 

of flame. 

188 



SONG, 189 

Alas for the loved one! too spotless and fair 
The joys of his banquet to chasten and share; 
Her eye lost its light that his goblet might 

shine, 
And the rose of her cheek was dissolved in his 

wine. * 

Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows in the 

rills. 
As their ribands of silver unwind from the 

hills; 
They breathe not the mist of the bacchanal's 

dream, 
But the lilies of innocence float on their 

stream. • 

Then a health and a welcome to woman once 

morel 
She brings us a passport that laughs at our 

door; 
It is written on crimson, — its letters are 

pearls, — 
It is countersigned Nature. So, room for 

the Girls! 



THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 

(illustration of a picture.) 

They bid me strike the idle strings, 

As if my summer days 
Had shaken sunbeams from their wings, 

To warm my autumn lays; 
They bring to me their painted urn, 

As if it were not time 
To lift my gauntlet and to spurn . 

The lists of boyish rhyme; 
And, were it not that I have still 

Some weakness in my heart 
That clings around my stronger will 

And pleads for gentler art, 
Perchance I had not turned away 

The thoughts grown tame with toil, 
To cheat this lone and pallid ray. 

That wastes the midnight oil. 

Alas! with every year I feel 
Some roses leave my brow; 
190 



THE ONLY DAUGHTER, 191 

Too young for wisdom's tardy seal, 

Too old for garlands now; 
Yet, while the dewy breath of spring 

Steals o'er the tingling air, 
And spreads and fans each emerald wing 

The forest soon shall wear, 
How bright the opening year would seem, 

Had I one look like thine. 
To meet me when the morning beam 

Unseals these lids of mine ! 
Too long I bear this lonely lot. 

That bids my heart run wild 
To press the lips that love me not, 

To clasp the stranger's child. 

How oft beyond the dashing seas. 

Amidst those royal bowers. 
Where danced the lilacs in the breeze, 

And swung the chestnut flowers, 
I wandered like a wearied slave 

Whose morning task is done. 
To watch the little hands that gave 

Their whiteness to the sun; 
To revel in the bright young eyes. 



192 THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 

Whose lustre sparkled through 
The sable fringe of southern skies, 

Or gleamed in Saxon blue ! 
How oft I heard another's name 

Called in some truant's tone; 
Sweet accents! which I longed to claim, 

To learn and lisp my ownl 

Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed 

The ringlets of the child. 
Are folded on the faithful breast 

Where first he breathed and smiled; 
Too oft the clinging arms untwine, 

The melting lips forget. 
And darkness veils the bridal shrine 

Where wreaths and torches met; 
If Heaven but leaves a single thread 

Of Hope's dissolving chain. 
Even when her parting plumes are spread, 

It bids them fold again; 
The cradle rocks beside the tomb; 

The cheek now changed and chill. 
Smiles on us in the morning bloom 

Of one that loves us still. 



THE ONLY DAUGHTER, 193 

Sweet image ! I have done thee wrong 

To claim this destined lay; 
The leaf that asked an idle song 

Must bear my tears away. 
Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep 

This else forgotten strain, 
Till years have taught thine eyes to weep 

And flattery's voice is vain; 
Oh, then, thou fledgling of the nest, 

Like the long-wandering dove. 
Thy weary heart may faint for rest. 

As mine, on changeless love; 
And, while these sculptured lines retrace 

The hours now dancing by. 
This vision of thy girlish grace 

May cost thee, too, a sigh. 



LEXINGTON. 

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, 
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, 
When from his couch, while his children were 
sleeping. 
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. 
Waving her golden veil 
Over the silent dale, 
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and 
spire; 

Hushed was his parting sigh, 
While from his noble eye 
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. 

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is 
springing 
Calmly the first-born of glory have met; 
Hark ! the death-volley around them is ringing ! 
Look! with their life-blood the young grass 
is wet! 

194 



LEXINGTON, 195 

Faint is the feeble breath, 

Murmuring low in death, 
"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died; " 

Nerveless the iron hand, 

Raised for its native land, 
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. 

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, 

From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; 
As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst 
rolling, 
Circles the beat of the mustering drum. 
Fast on the soldier's path 
Darken the waves of wrath. 
Long have they gathered and loud shall they 
fall; 

Red glares the musket's flash. 
Sharp rings the rifle's crash. 
Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. 

Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing. 
Never to shadow his cold brow again; 

Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, 
Reeking and panting he droops on the rein; 



196 LEXINGTON. 

Pale is the lip of scorn, 
Voiceless the trumpet horn, 

Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high; 
Many a belted breast 
Low on the turf shall rest, 

Ere the dark hunters the herd have past by. 

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is 
raving. 
Rocks where the weary floods murmur and 
wail, 
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving. 
Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale; 
Far as the tempest thrills 
Over the darkened hills, 
Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, 
Roused by the tyrant band, 
Woke all the mighty land. 
Girded for battle, from mountain to main. 

Green be the graves where her martyrs are 
lying ! 
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their 
rest, — 



LEXINGTON. 197 

While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying 
Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his 
nest. 

Borne on her northern pine, 
Long o'er the foaming brine 
Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun; 
Heaven keep her ever free, 
Wide as o'er land and sea 
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won. 



THE ISLAND HUNTING SONG. 

No more the summer floweret charms, 

The leaves will soon be sere, 
And Autumn folds his jewelled arms 

Around the dying year; 
So, ere the waning seasons claim 

Our leafless groves awhile, 
With golden wine and glowing flame 

We'll crown our lonely isle. 

Once more the merry voices sound 

Within the antlered hall. 
And long and loud the baying hounds 

Return the hunter's call; 
And through the woods, and o'er the hill, 

And far along the bay, 
The driver's horn is sounding shrill, — 

Up, sportsmen, and away! 

No bars of steel, or walls of stone, 
Our little empire bound, 
198 



THE ISLAND HUNTING SONG. 199 

But, circling with his azure zone, 
The sea runs foaming round; 

The whitening wave, the purpled skies, 
The blue and lifted shore. 

Braid with their#dim and blending dyes 
Our wide horizon o'er. 

And who will leave the grave debate 

That shakes the smoky town. 
To rule amid our island-state. 

And wear our oak-leaf crown? 
And who will be awhile content 

To hunt our woodland game, 
And leave the vulgar pack that scent 

The reeking track of fame? 

Ah, who that shares in toils like these 

Will sigh not to prolong 
Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, 

Our nights of mirth and song? 
Then leave the dust of noisy streets, 

Ye outlaws of the wood. 
And follow through his green retreats 

Your noble Robin Hood. 



QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

Where, oh where are the visions of morning, 
Fresh as the dews of our prime? 

Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, 
Down the back entry of time. 

Where, oh where are life's lilies and roses, 
Nursed in the golden dawn's smile? 

Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, 
On the old banks of the Nile. 

Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, 

Loving and lovely of yore? 
Look in the columns of old Advertisers^ — 

Married and dead by the score. 

Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies, 

Saturday's triumph and joy? 
Gone like our friend TroSa? ^L/cvs Achilles, 

Homer's ferocious old boy. 
200 



QUESTIONS AND ANSIVERS, 201 

Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion, 
Hopes like young eagles at play, 

Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion, 
How ye have faded away! 

Yet, though the ebbing of Time's mighty river 
Leave our young blossoms to die, 

Let him roll smooth in his current forever. 
Till the last pebble is dry. 



A SONG, 

FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD 
COLLEGE, 1836. 

When the Puritans came over. 

Our hills and swamps to clear, 
The woods were full of catamounts, 

And Indians red as deer. 
With tomahawks and scalping-knives. 

That make folks' heads look queer; — 
Oh, the ship from England used to bring 

A hundred wigs a year! 

The crows came cawing through the air 

To pluck the pilgrims' corn, 
The bears came snuffing round the door 

Whene'er a babe was born, 
The rattlesnakes were bigger round 

Than the butt of the old rams' horn 
The deacon blew at meeting time 

On every "Sabbath" morn. 
202 



A SONG. 203 

But soon they knocked the wigwams down, 

And pine-tree trunk and limb 
Began to sprout among the leaves 

In shape of steeples slim; 
And out the little wharves were stretched 

Along the ocean's rim, 
And up the little schoolhouse shot 

To keep the boys in trim. 

And when, at length, the College rose, 

The sachem cocked his eye 
At every tutor's meagre ribs 

Whose coat-tails whistled by; 
But, when the Greek and Hebrew words 

Came tumbling from their jaws, 
The copper-colored children all 

Ran screaming to the squaws. 

And who was on the Catalogue 

When college was begun? 
Two nephews of the President, 

And fke Professor's son, 
(They turned a little Indian by. 

As brown as any bun); 



204 A SONG. 

Lord! how the seniors knocked about 
The freshman class of one! 

They had not then the dainty things 

That commons now afford, 
But succotash and hominy 

Were smoking on the board; 
They did not rattle round in gigs, 

Or dash in long-tail blues, 
But always on Commencement Days 

The tutors blacked their shoes. 

God bless the ancient Puritans! 

Their lot was hard enough; 
But honest hearts make iron arms, 

And tender maids are tough; 
So love and faith have formed and fed 

Our true-born Yankee stuff. 
And keep the kernel in the shell 

The British found so rough! 



TERPSICHORE.^ 

In narrowest girdle, O reluctant Muse, 
In closest frock and Cinderella shoes, 
Bound to the foot-lights for thy brief display. 
One zephyr step, and then dissolve away! 



Short is the space that gods and men can spare 
To Song's twin brother when she is not there. 
Let others water every lusty line. 
As Homer's heroes did their purple wine; 
Pierian revellers! Known in strains like these 
The native juice, the real honest squeeze, — 
Strains that, diluted to the twentieth power, 
In yon grave templet might have filled an 
hour. 

* Read at the Annual Dinner of the <l>. B. K. Society, at 
Cambridge, August 24, 1843. 

t The Annual Poem is always delivered in the neigh- 
boring church. 

206 



206 TERPSICHORE. 

Small room for Fancy's many-chorded lyre, 
For Wit's bright rockets with their trains of 

fire, 
For Pathos, struggling vainly to surprise 
The iron tutor's tear-denying eyes, 
For Mirth, whose finger with delusive wile 
Turns the grim key of many a rusty smile, 
For Satire, emptying his corrosive flood 
On hissing Folly's gas-exhaling brood. 
The pun, the fun, the moral and the joke, 
The hit, the thrust, the pugilistic poke, — 
Small space for these, so pressed by niggard 

Time, 
Like that false matron, known to nursery 

rhyme, — 
Insidious Morey, — scarce her tale begun, 
Ere listening infants weep the story done. 

had we room to rip the mighty bags 
That Time, the harlequin, has stuffed with rags ! 
Grant us one moment to unloose the strings. 
While the old gray-beard shuts his leather wings. 
But what a heap of motley trash appears 
Crammed in the bundles of successive years! 



TERPSICHORE, 207 

As the lost rustic on some festal day 
Stares through the concourse in its vast array, — 
Where in one cake a throng of faces runs, 
All stuck together like a sheet of buns, — 
And throws the bait of some unheeded name. 
Or shoots a wink with most uncertain aim. 
So roams my vision, wandering over all. 
And strives to choose, but knows not where to 
fall. 

Skins of flayed authors, — husks of dead re- 
views, — 
The turn-coat's clothes, — the officer seeker's 

shoes, — 
Scraps from cold feasts, where conversation runs 
Through mouldy toasts to oxidated puns, 
And grating songs a listening crowd endures. 
Rasped from the throats of bellowing ama- 
teurs ; — 
Sermons, whose writers played such dangerous 

tricks 
Their own heresiarchs called them heretics 
(Strange that one term such distant poles 
should link, 



208 TERPSICHORE, 

The Priestleyan's copper and the Puseyan's 

zinc); — 
Poems that shuffle with superfluous legs 
A blindfold minuet over addled eggs, 
Where all the syllables that end in ed, 
Like old dragoons, have cuts across the head; — 
Essays so dark ChampoUion might despair 
To guess what mummy of a thought was there, 
Where our poor English, -striped with foreign 

phrase, 
Looks like a Zebra in a parson's chaise; — 
Lectures that cut our dinners down to roots. 
Or prove (by monkeys) men should stick to 

fruits; 
Delusive error, — as at trifling charge 
Professor Gripes will certify at large; — 
Mesmeric pamphlets, which to facts appeal. 
Each fact as slippery as a fresh-caught eel; — 
And figured heads, whose hieroglyphs invite 
To wandering knaves that discount fools at 

sight; — 
Such things as these, with heaps of unpaid 

bills, 
And candy puffs and homoeopathic pills, 



TERPSICHORE 209 

And ancient bell-crowns with contracted rim, 
And bonnets hideous with expanded brim, 
And coats whose memory turns the sartor pale, 
Their sequels tapering like a lizard's tail; — 
How might we spread them to the smiling day. 
And toss them, fluttering like the new-mown 

hay. 
To laughter's light or sorrow's pitying shower. 
Were these brief minutes lengthened to an hour. 

The narrow moments fit like Sunday shoes. 
How vast the heap, how quickly must we 

choose; 
A few small scraps from out his mountain mass 
We snatch in haste, and let the vagrant pass. 

This shrunken crust that Cerberus could not 

bite, 
Stamped (in one corner) "Pickwick copyright," 
Kneaded by youngsters, raised by flattery's 

yeast, 
Was once a loaf, and helped to make a feast. 
He for whose sake the glittering show appears 
Has sown the world with laughter and with 

tears, 



210 TERPSICHORE, 

And they whose welcome wets the bumper's 

brim 
Have wit and wisdom, — for they all quote him. 
So, many a tongue the evening hour prolongs 
With spangled speeches, — let alone the songs, — 
Statesmen grow merry, lean attorneys laugh, 
And weak teetotals warm to half and half. 
And beardless Tullys, new to festive scenes, 
Cut their first crop of youth's precocious greens, 
And wits stand ready for impromptu claps. 
With loaded barrels and percussion caps. 
And Pathos, cantering through the minor keys, 
Waves all her onions to the trembling breeze; 
While the great Feasted views with silent glee 
His scattered limbs in Yankee fricassee. 

Sweet is the scene where genial friendship 
plays 

The pleasing game of interchanging praise; 

Self-love, grimalkin of the human heart, 

Is ever pliant to the master's art; 

Soothed with a word, she peacefully with- 
draws 

And sheathes in velvet her obnoxious claws, 



TERPSICHORE, 211 

And thrills the hand that smooths her glossy 

fur 
With the light tremor of her grateful purr. 

But what sad music fills the quiet hall, 

If on her back a feline rival fall; 

And oh, what noises shake the tranquil house, 

If old Self-interest cheats her of a mouse ! 

Thou, O my country, hast thy foolish ways, 
Too apt to purr at every stranger's praise; 
But, if the stranger touch thy modes or laws. 
Off goes the velvet and out come the claws! 
And thou. Illustrious! but too poorly paid 
In toasts from Pickwick for thy great crusade. 
Though, while the echoes labored with thy 

name. 
The public trap denied thy little game, 
Let other lips our jealous laws revile, — 
The marble Talfourd or the rude Carlyle, — 
But on thy lids, that Heaven forbids to close 
Where'er the light of kindly nature glows, 
Let not the dollars that a churl denies 
Weigh like the shillings on a dead man's eyes! 



212 TERPSICHORE, 

Or, if thou wilt, be more discreetly blind, 
Nor ask to see all wide extremes combined. 

Not in our wastes the dainty blossoms smile, 
That crowd the gardens of thy scanty isle. 
There white-cheeked Luxury weaves a thousand 

charms; — 
Here sun-browned Labor swings his naked arms. 
Long are the furrows he must trace between 
The ocean's azure and the prairie's green; 
Full many a blank his destined realm displays. 
Yet see the promise of his riper days: 
Far through yon depths the panting engine 

moves, 
His chariots ringing in their steel-shod grooves; 
And Erie's naiad flings her diamond wave 
O'er the wild sea-nymph in her distant cave! 
While tasks like these employ his anxious 

hours. 
What if his corn-fields are not edged with 

flowers? 
Though bright as silver the meridian beams 
Shine through the crystal of thine English 

streams, 



TERPSICHORE. 213 

Turbid and dark the mighty wave is whirled 
That drains our Andes and divides a world! 

But lo! a parchment! Surely it would seem 
The sculptured impress speaks of power su- 
preme ; 
Some grave design the solemn page must claim 
That shows so broadly an emblazoned name; 
A sovereign's promise! Look, the lines afford 
All Honor gives when Caution asks his word; 
There sacred Faith has laid her snow-white 

hands, 
And awful Justice knit her iron bands; 
Yet every leaf is stained with treachery's dye, 
And every letter crusted with a lie. 
Alas! no treason has degraded yet 
The Arab's salt, the Indian's calumet; 
A simple rite, that bears the wanderer's pledge. 
Blunts the keen shaft and turns the dagger's 

edge; — 
While jockeying senates stop to sign and seal. 
And freeborn statesmen legislate to steal. 
Rise, Europe, tottering with thine Atlas load, 
Turn thy proud eye to Freedom's blest abode, 



214 TERPSICHORE. 

And round her forehead, wreathed with heavenly 

flame, 
Bind the dark garland of her daughter's shame! 
Ye ocean clouds, that wrap the angry blast, 
Coil her stained ensign round its haughty mast, 
Or tear the fold that wears so foul a scar. 
And drive a bolt through every blackened star ! 

Once more, — once only, — we must stop so 

soon, — 
What have we here? A German-silver spoon; 
A cheap utensil, which we often see 
Used by the dabblers in aesthetic tea; 
Of slender fabric, somewhat light and thin, 
Made of mixed metal, chiefly lead and tin; 
The bowl is shallow, and the handle small 
Marked in large letters with the name Jean 

Paul. 
Small as it is, its powers are passing strange. 
For all who use it show a wondrous change; 
And first, a fact to make the barbers stare. 
It beats Macassar for the growth of hair; 
See those small youngsters whose expansive ears 
Maternal kindness grazed with frequent shears; 



TERPSICHORE, 215 

Each bristling crop a dangling mass becomes, 
And all the spoonies turn to Absaloms! 
Nor this alone its magic power displays, 
It alters strangely all their works and ways; 
With uncouth words they tire their tender lungs. 
The same bald phrases on their hundred 

tongues; 
"Ever" "The Ages" in their page appear, 
"Alway" the bedlamite is called a "Seer"; 
On every leaf the "earnest" sage may scan, 
Portentous bore! their "many-sided" man, — 
A weak eclectic, groping vague and dim, 
Whose every angle is a half-starved whim. 
Blind as a mole and curious as a lynx, 
Who rides a beetle, which he calls a "Sphinx." 
And oh what questions asked in club-foot rhyme 
Of Earth the tongueless and the deaf-mute 

Time ! 
Here babbling "Insight" shouts in Nature's 

ears 
His last conundrum on the orbs and spheres; 
There Self-inspection sucks its little thumb. 
With "Whence am I?" and "Wherefore did I 

come? " 



216 TERPSICHORE. 

Deluded infants! will they ever know 
Some doubts must darken o'er the world below, 
Though all the Platos of the nursery trail 
Their "clouds of glory" at the go-cart's tail? 
O might these couplets their attention claim, 
That gain their author the Philistine's name; 
(A stubborn race, that, spurning foreign law, 
Was much belabored with an ass's jaw!) 

Melodious Laura! From the sad retreats 
That hold thee, smothered with excess of 

sweets, 
Shade of a shadow, spectre of a dream, 
Glance thy wan eye across the Stygian stream! 
The slip-shod dreamer treads thy fragrant halls, 
The sophist's cobwebs hang thy roseate walls, 
And o'er the crotchets of thy jingling tunes 
The bard of mystery scrawls his crooked 

"runes." 
Yes, thou art gone, with all the tuneful hordes 
That candied thoughts in amber-colored words. 
And in the precincts of thy late abodes 
The clattering verse-wright hammers Orphic 

odes. 



TERPSICHORE, 217 

Thou, soft as zephyr, wast content to fly 
On the gilt pinions of a balmy sigh; 
He, vast as Phoebus on his burning wheels. 
Would stride through ether at Orion's heels; 
Thy emblem, Laura, was a perfume- jar, 
And thine, young Orpheus, is a pewter star; 
The balance trembles, — be its verdict told 
When the new jargon slumbers with the old! 



Cease, playful goddess ! From thine airy bound 
Drop like a feather softly to the ground; 
This light bolero grows a ticklish dance, 
And there is mischief in thy kindling glance. 
To-morrow bids thee, with rebuking frown. 
Change thy gauze tunic for a home-made gown. 
Too blest by fortune, if the passing day 
Adorn thy bosom with its frail bouquet, 
But oh still happier if the next forgets 
Thy daring steps and dangerous pirouettes! 



URANIA: 

A RHYMED LESSON.^ 

Yes, dear Enchantress, — wandering far and 

long, 
In realms unperfumed by the breath of song, 
Where flowers ill-flavored shed their sweets 

around. 
And bitterest roots invade the ungenial ground. 
Whose gems are crystals from the Epsom mine. 
Whose vineyards flow with antimonial wine, 
Whose gates admit no mirthful feature in. 
Save one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic grin, 
Whose pangs are real, not the woes of rhyme 
That blue-eyed misses warble out of time; — 
Truant, not recreant to thy sacred claim, 
Older by reckoning, but in heart the same. 
Freed for a moment from the chains of toil, 
I tread once more thy consecrated soil; 

* This poem was delivered before the Boston Mercantile 
Library Association, October 14, 1846. 
218 



URANIA: A RHYMED LESSON. 219 

Here at thy feet my old allegiance own, 
Thy subject still, and loyal to thy throne! 

My dazzled glance explores the crowded 
hall; 
Alas, how vain to hope the smiles of all! 
I know my audience. All the gay and young 
Love the light antics of a playful tongue; 
And these, remembering some expansive line 
My lips let loose among the nuts and wine. 
Are all impatience till the opening pun 
Proclaim the witty shamfight is begun. 
Two fifths at least, if not the total half, 
Have come infuriate for an earthquake laugh; 
I know full well what alderman has tied 
His red bandanna tight about his side; 
I see the mother, who, aware that boys 
Perform their laughter with superfluous noise. 
Besides her kerchief, brought an extra one 
To stop the explosions of her bursting son; 
I know a tailor, once a friend of mine. 
Expects great doings in the button line; — 
For mirth's concussions rip the outward case, 
And plant the stitches in a tenderer place. 



220 URANIA : 

I know my audience ; — these shall have their due ; 
A smile awaits them ere my song is through! 

I know myself. Not servile for applause, 
My Muse permits no deprecating clause; 
Modest or vain, she will not be denied 
One bold confession, due to honest pride; 
And well she knows, the drooping veil of song 
Shall save her boldness from the caviller's wrong. 
Her sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid imparts 
To tell the secrets of our aching hearts; 
For this, a suppliant, captive, prostrate, bound. 
She kneels imploring at the feet of sound; 
For this, convulsed in thought's maternal pains. 
She loads her arms with rhyme's resounding 

chains; 
Faint though the music of her fetters be, 
It lends one charm; — her lips are ever free! 

Think not I come, in manhood's fiery noon. 
To steal his laurels from the stage buffoon; 
His sword of lath the harlequin may wield; 
Behold the star upon my lifted shield! 
Though the just critic pass my humble name, 
And sweeter lips have drained the cup of fame, 



A RHYMED LESSON, 221 

While my gay stanza pleased the banquet's 

lords, 
The soul within was tuned to deeper chords! 
Say, shall my arms, in other conflicts taught 
To swing aloft the ponderous mace of thought, 
Lift, in obedience to a school-girl's law 
Mirth's tinsel wand or laughter's tickling straw? 
Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling spear 
The pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome 

here? 
No ! while I wander through the land of dreams 
To strive with great and play with trifling 

themes. 
Let some kind meaning fill the varied line; 
You have your judgment; will you trust to 

mine? 



Between two breaths what crowded mys- 
teries lie, — 
The first short gasp, the last and long-drawn 

sigh ! 
Like phantoms painted on the magic slide. 
Forth from the darkness of the past we glide, 



222 URANIA : 

As living shadows for a moment seen 
In airy pageant on the eternal screen, 
Traced by a ray from one unchanging flame, 
Then seek the dust and stillness whence we 
came. 

But whence and why, our trembling souls 

inquire, 
Caught these dim visions their awakening fire? 
Oh, who forgets when first the piercing thought 
Through childhood's musings found its way 

unsought. 
I AM ; — I LIVE. The mystery and the fear 
When the dread question — What has brought 

ME here? 
Burst through life's twilight, as before the sun 
Roll the deep thunders of the morning gun! 

Are angel faces, silent and serene. 
Bent on the conflicts of this little scene. 
Whose dreamlike efforts, whose unreal strife, 
Are but the preludes to a larger life? 

Or does life's summer see the end of all. 
These leaves of being mouldering as they fall, 



A RHYMED LESSON, 223 

As the old poet vaguely used to deem, 
As Wesley questioned in his youthful dream ?^ 
O could such mockery reach our souls indeed, 
Give back the Pharaohs' or the Athenian's creed; 
Better than this a heaven of man's device, — ^ 
The Indian's sports, the Moslem's paradise! 

Or is our being's only end and aim 
To add new glories to our Maker's name. 
As the poor insect, shrivelling in the blaze, 
Lends a faint sparkle to its streaming rays? 
Does earth send upwards to the Eternal's ear 
The mingled discords of her jarring sphere 
To swell his anthem, while Creation rings 
With notes of anguish from its shattered strings? 
Is it for this the immortal Artist means 
These conscious, throbbing, agonized machines? 

Dark is the soul whose sullen creed can bind 
In chains like these the all-embracing Mind; 
No ! two-faced bigot, thou dost ill reprove 
The sensual, selfish, yet benignant Jove, 
And praise a tyrant throned in lonely pride. 
Who loves himself, and cares for naught beside; 



224 URANIA : 

Who gave thee, summoned from primeval night, 
A thousand laws, and not a single right; 
A heart to feel and quivering nerves to thrill, 
The sense of wrong, the death-defying will; 
Who girt thy senses with this goodly frame, 
Its earthly glories and its orbs of flame, 
Not for thyself, unworthy of a thought. 
Poor helpless victim of a life unsought. 
But all for him, unchanging and supreme. 
The heartless centre of thy frozen scheme! 

Trust not the teacher with his lying scroll. 
Who tears the charter of thy shuddering soul; 
The God of love, who gave the breath that 

warms 
All living dust in all its varied forms. 
Asks not the tribute of a world like this 
To fill the measure of his perfect bliss. 
Though winged with life through all its radi- 
ant shores. 
Creation flowed with unexhausted stores 
Cherub and seraph had not yet enjoyed; 
For this he called thee from the quickening 
void! 



A RHYMED LESSON, 225 

Nor this alone; a larger gift was thine, 

A mightier purpose swelled his vast design; 

Thought, — conscience, — will, — to make them 

all thine own. 
He rent a pillar from the eternal throne ! 

Made in his image, thou must nobly dare 
The thorny crown of sovereignty to share. 
With eye uplifted it is thine to view. 
From thine own centre, heaven's o'er-arching 

blue; 
So round thy heart a beaming circle lies 
No fiend can blot, no hypocrite disguise; 
From all its orbs one cheering voice is heard, 
Full to thine ear it bears the Father's word. 
Now, as in Eden where his first-born trod: 
"Seek thine own welfare, true to man and 
God!" 

Think not too meanly of thy low estate; 
Thou hast a choice; to choose is to create! 
Remember whose the sacred lips that tell. 
Angels approve thee when thy choice is well; 
P.emember, One, a judge of righteous men. 
Swore to spare Sodom if she held but ten! 



226 URANIA : 

Use well the freedom which thy Master gave, 
(Think' St thou that Heaven can tolerate a 

slave?) 
And He who made thee to be just and true 
Will bless thee, love thee, — ay, respect thee 

too! 

Nature has placed thee on a changeful tide. 
To breast its waves, but not without a guide; 
Yet, as the needle will forget its aim, 
Jarred by the fury of the electric flame. 
As the true current it will falsely feel. 
Warped from its axis by a freight of steel; 
So will thy CONSCIENCE lose its balanced truth, 
If passion's lightning fall upon thy youth; 
So the pure effluence quit its sacred hold, 
Girt round too deeply with magnetic gold. 

Go to yon tower, where busy science plies 
Her vast antennae, feeling through the skies; 
That little vernier on whose slender, lines 
The midnight taper trembles as it shines, 
A silent index, tracks the planet's march 
In all their wanderings through the ethereal arch, 



A RHYMED LESSON. 227 

Tells through the mist where dazzled Mercury 

burns, 
And marks the spot where Uranus returns. 
So, till by wrong or negligence effaced. 
The living index which thy Maker traced 
Repeats the line each starry Virtue draws 
Through the wide circuit of creation's laws; 
Still tracks unchanged the everlasting ray 
Where the dark shadows of temptation stray; 
But, once defaced, forgets the orbs of light, 
And leaves thee wandering o'er the expanse of 

night ! 

"What is thy creed?" a hundred lips in- 
quire; 
"Thou seekest God beneath what Christian 

spire?" 
Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies 
Float upward on the smoke of sacrifice; 
When man's first incense rose above the plain. 
Of earth's two altars one was built by Cain! 
Uncursed by doubt, our earliest creed we 
take; 
We love the precepts for the teacher's sake; 



228 URANIA : 

The simple lessons which the nursery taught 
Fell soft and stainless on the buds of thought, 
And the full blossom owes its fairest hue 
To those sweet tear-drops of affection's dew. 

Too oft the light that led our earlier hours 
Fades with the perfume of our cradle flowers; 
The clear, cold question chills to frozen doubt; 
Tired of beliefs, we dread to live without; 
Oh, then, if reason waver at thy side, 
Let humbler Memory be thy gentle guide; 
Go to thy birth-place, and, if faith was there, 
Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's prayer! 

Faith loves to lean on Time's destroying arm. 
And age, like distance, lends a double charm; 
In dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted gloom. 
What holy awe invests the saintly tomb ! 
There pride will bow, and anxious care expand, 
And creeping avarice come with open hand; 
The gay can weep, the impious can adore, 
From morn's first glimmerings on the chancel 

floor 
Till dying sunset sheds his crimson stains 
Through the faint halos of the irised panes. 



A RHYMED LESSON. 229 

Yet there are graves, whose rudely shapen sod 
Bears the fresh footprints where the sexton trod; 
Graves where the verdure has not dared to 

shoot, 
Where the chance wild-flower has not fixed its 

root, 
Whose slumbering tenants, dead without a 

name. 
The eternal record shall at length proclaim 
Pure as the holiest in the long array 
Of hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay! 

Come, seek the air; some pictures we may 

gain 
Whose passing shadows shall not be in vain; 
Not from the scenes that crowd the stranger's 

soil. 
Not from our own amidst the stir of toil, 
But when the Sabbath brings its kind release, 
And Care lies slumbering on the lap of Peace. 

The air is hushed; the street is holy ground; 
Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome 
sound; 



230 URANIA : 

As one by one awakes each silent tongue, 
It tells the turret whence its voice is flung. ^ 

The Chapel, last of sublunary things 
That shocks our echoes with the name of 

Kings, 
Whose bell, just glistening from the font and 

forge, 
Rolled its proud requiem for the second George, 
Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang. 
Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang; — 
The simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour 
When Howe's artillery shook its half-built 

tower, 
Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do. 
The iron breastpin which the "Rebels" threw, 
Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering 

thrill 
Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill; — 
Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire, 
Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern 

spire; — 
The Giant, standing by the elm-clad green. 
His white lance lifted o'er the silent scene, 



A RHYMED LESSON. 231 

Whirling in air his brazen goblet round, 
Swings from its brim the swollen floods of 

sound; — 
While, sad with memories of the olden time, 
The Northern Minstrel pours her tender chime, 
Faint, single tones, that spell their ancient song. 
But tears still follow as they breathe along. 

Child of the soil, w^hom fortune sends to 

range 
Where man and nature, faith and customs 

change. 
Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone 
Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone. 
When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed 

breeze 
Through the warm billows of the Indian seas; 
When, — ship and shadow blended both in 

one, — 
Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun, 
From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon 
Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon; 
When through thy shrouds the wild tornado 

sings, 



232 URANIA : 

And thy poor ssabird folds her tattered wings, 
Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal, 
And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal ! 
Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array 
Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay. 
Home, with its smiling board, its cheering 

fire. 
The half-choked welcome of the expecting 

sire. 
The mother's kiss, and, still if aught remain. 
Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent 

strain. — 
Ah, let the dreamer o'er the taffrail lean 
To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen; 
Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's chills, 
His heart lies warm among his triple hills! 

Turned from her path by this deceitful 
gleam. 
My wayward fancy half forgets her theme; 
See through the streets that slumbered in repose 
The living current of devotion flows; 
Its varied forms in one harmonious band. 
Age leading childhood by its dimpled hand, 



A RHYMED LESSON. 233 

Want, in the robe whose faded edges fall 
To tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl, 
And wealth, in silks that, fluttering to appear, 
Lift the deep borders of the proud cashmere. 

See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale. 
Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's 

veil; 
Alone she wanders where with him she trod. 
No arm to stay her, but she leans on God. 

While other doublets deviate here and there, 
What secret handcuff binds that pretty pair? 
Compactest couple ! pressing side to side, — 
Ah, the white bonnet that reveals the bride ! 

By the white neckcloth, with its straitened 
tie, 
The sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking eye, 
Severe and smileless, he that runs may read 
The stern disciple of Geneva's creed; 
Decent and slow, behold, his solemn march; 
Silent he enters through yon crowded arch. 

A livelier bearing of the outward man, 
The light-hued gloves, the undevout rattan, 



234 URANIA : 

Now smartly raised or half-profanely twirled, — 
A bright, fresh twinkle from the week-day 

world, — 
Tell their plain story; — yes, thine eyes behold 
A cheerful Christian from the liberal fold. 

Down the chill street that curves in gloomi- 
est shade. 
What marks betray yon solitary maid? 
The cheek's red rose, that speaks of balmier 

air; 
The Celtic blackness of her braided hair;^ 
The gilded missal in her kerchief tied; 
Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side! 

Sister in toil, though blanched by colder 
skies. 
That left their azure in her downcast eyes, 
See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient child. 
Scarce weaned from home, the nursling of the 

wild 
Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon shines, 
And broad Penobscot dashes through the pines j 
Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers hold 
The unfailing hymn-book in its cambric fold. 



A RHYMED LESSON. 236 

Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she stands, 
The seventh sweet morning folds her weary 

hands; 
Yes, child of suffering, thou may'st well be 

sure 
He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor! 

This weekly picture faithful memory draws, 
Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause; 
Faint is the glow such barren hopes can lend. 
And frail the line that asks no loftier end. 

Trust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile 
Thy saddened features of the promised smile; 
This magic mantle thou must well divide, 
It has its sable and its ermine side; 
Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears. 
Take thou in silence, what I give in tears. 

Dear listening soul, this transitory scene 
Of murmuring stillness, busily serene; 
This solemn pause, the breathing-space of man. 
The halt of toil's exhausted caravan. 
Comes sweet with music to thy wearied ear; 
Rise with its anthems to a holier sphere ! 



236 URANIA : 

Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that 
guide 
The lowliest brother straying from thy side; 
If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own, 
If wrong, the verdict is for God alone! 

What though the champions of thy faith 
esteem 
The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream; 
Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife 
Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of life? 

Let my free soul, expanding as it can, 
Leave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan; 
But Calvin's dogma shall my lips deride? 
In that stern faith my angel Mary died; — 
Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save. 
Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave? 

True, the harsh founders of thy church 
reviled 
That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's child; 
Must thou be raking in the crumbled past 
For racks and fagots in her teeth to cast? 



A RHYMED LESSON. 237 

See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile 
The whitened skull of old Servetus smile ! 
Round her young heart thy " Romish Upas " 

threw 
Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as she grew; 
Thy sneering voice may call them "Popish 

tricks," — 
Her Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix, — 
But De Profundis blessed her father's grave; 
That " idol " cross her dying mother gave ! 

What if some angel looks with equal eyes 
On her and thee, the simple and the wise. 
Writes each dark fault against thy brighter 

creed, 
And drops a tear with every foolish bead ! 

Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's reeking 

page; 
Blush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age; 
Strive with the wanderer from the better path. 
Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath; 
Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall, 
Have thine own faith, — but hope and pray 

for all! 



238 URANIA: 

Faith; Conscience; Love. A meaner task 

remains, 
And humbler thoughts must creep in lowlier 

strains; 
Shalt thou be honest? Ask the worldly schools, 
And all will tell thee knaves are busier fools; 
Prudent? Industrious? Let not modern pens 
Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citizens. 

Be firm! one constant element in luck 
Is genuine, solid, old Teutonic pluck; 
See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's 

thrill, 
Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise still. 

Stick to your aim; the mongrel's hold will 

slip. 
But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip; 
Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields 
Drags down the bellowing monarch of the 

fields! 

Yet in opinions look not always back; 
Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track; 



A RHYMED LESSON, 239 

Leave what you've done for what you have to do; 
Don't be "consistent," but be simply true. 
Don't catch the fidgets; you have found 

your place 
Just in the focus of a nervous race, 
Fretful to change, and rabid to discuss, 
Full of excitements, always in a fuss; — 
Think of the patriarchs; then compare as men 
These lean-cheeked maniacs of the tongue and 

pen! 
Run, if you like, but try to keep your breath; 
Work like a man, but don't be worked to 

death; 
And with new notions, — let me change the 

rule, — 
Don't strike the iron till it's slightly cool. 

Choose well your sef; our feeble nature seeks 
The aid of clubs, the countenance of cliques; 
And with this object settle first of all 
Your weight of metal and your size of ball. 
Track not the steps of such as hold you cheap. 
Too mean to prize, though good enough to 
keep; 



240 URANIA : 

The " real, genuine, no-mistake Tom Thumbs ** 
Are little people fed on great men's crumbs. 

Yet keep no followers of that hateful brood 
That basely mingles with its wholesome food 
The tumid reptile, which, the poet said, 
Doth wear a precious jewel in his head. 

If the wild filly, "Progress," thou would'st 

ride. 
Have young companions ever at thy side; 
But, would'st thou stride the stanch old mare, 

"Success," 
Go with thine elders, though they please thee less. 

Shun such as lounge through afternoons and 
eves. 
And on thy dial write "Beware of thieves!" 
Felon of minutes, never taught to feel 
The worth of treasures which thy fingers steal, 
Pick my left pocket of its silver dime, 
But spare the right, — it holds my golden time ! 

Does praise delight thee? Choose some 
tiltra side; 
A sure old recipe, and often tried; 



A RHYMED LESSON. 241 

Be its apostle, congressman, or bard, 
Spokesman, or jokesman, only drive it hard; 
But know the forfeit which thy choice abides, 
For on two wheels the poor reformer rides. 
One black with epithets the anti throws, 
One white with flattery, painted by the pros. 

Though books on manners are not out of 
print. 
An honest tongue may drop a harmless hint. 

Stop not, unthinking, every friend you meet. 
To spin your wordy fabric in the street; 
While you are emptying your colloquial pack. 
The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his back. 

Nor cloud his features with the unwelcome tale 
Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale; 
Health is a subject for his child, his wife, 
And the rude office that insures his life. 

Look in his face, to meet thy neighbor's soul, 
Not on his garments, to detect a hole; 
"How to observe," is what thy pages show, 
Pride of thy sex. Miss Harriet Martineau! 
Oh, what a precious book the one would be 
That taught observers what they're tiot to see! 



242 URANIA : 

I tell in verse, — 'twere better done in 

prose, — 
One curious trick that everybody knows; 
Once form this habit, and it's very strange 
How long it sticks, how hard it is to change. 
Two friendly people, both disposed to smile, 
Who meet, like others, every little while, 
Instead of passing with a pleasant bow. 
And "How d'ye do?" or "How's your uncle 

now?" 
Impelled by feelings in their nature kind, 
But slightly weak, and somewhat undefined. 
Rush at each other, make a sudden stand, 
Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand; 
Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely 

struck. 
Their meeting so was such a piece of luck; 
Each thinks the other thinks he's greatly pleased 
To screw the vice in which they both are 

squeezed; 
So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow, 
Both bored to death, and both afraid to go! 

Your hat once lifted, do not hang your fire, 
Nor, like slow Ajax, fighting still, retire; 



A RHYMED LESSON. 243 

When your old castor on your crown you clap, 
Go off; you've mounted your percussion cap! 

Some words on language maybe well applied, 
And take them kindly, though they touch your 

pride; 
Words lead to things; a scale is more precise, — 
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drink- 
ing, vice. 
Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips 
The native freedom of the Saxon lips; 
See the brown peasant of the plastic South, 
How all his passions play about his mouth! 
With us, the feature that transmits the soul, 
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole. 
The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk 
Tie the small muscles when he strives to talk; 
Not all the pumice of the polished town 
Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down; 
Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race 
By this one mark, — he's awkward in the 

face ; — 
Nature's rude impress, long before he knew 
The sunny street that holds the sifted few. 



244 URANIA : 

It can*t be helped, though, if we're taken 

young, 
We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue; 
But school and college often try in vain 
To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain; 
One stubborn word will prove this axiom 

true ; — 
No quondam rustic can enunciate view. 

A few brief stanzas may be well employed 
To speak of errors we can all avoid. 

Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope 
The careless lips that speak of soap for soap; 
Her edict exiles from her fair abode 
The clownish voice that utters road for road; 
Less stern to him who calls his coat a coat. 
And steers his boat, believing it a boat, 
She pardoned one, our classic city's boast, 
Who said at Cambridge, most instead of most, 
But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot 
To hear a Teacher call a root a root. 

Once more; speak clearly, if you speak at 
all; 
Carve every word before you let it fall; 



A RHYMED LESSON, 245 

Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, 
Try over hard to roll the British R; 
Do put your accents in the proper spot; 
Don't, — let me beg you, — don't say **How?" 
for "What?'* 
And, when you stick on conversation's burs. 
Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs. 

From little matters let us pass to less, 
And lightly touch the mysteries of dress; 
The outward forms the inner man reveal, — 
We guess the pulp before we cut the peel. 

I leave the broadcloth, — coats and all the 
rest, — 

The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys 
"vest," , 

The things named "pants" in certain docu- 
ments, 

A word not made for gentlemen, but "gents"; 

One single precept might the whole condense; 

Be sure your tailor is a man of sense; 

But add a little care, a decent pride, 

And always err upon the sober side. 



246 URANIA: 

Three pairs of boots one pair of feet de- 
mands, 
If polished daily by the owner's hands; 
If the dark menial's visit save from this, 
Have twice the number, for he'll sometimes 

miss. 
One pair for critics of the nicer sex. 
Close in the instep's clinging circumflex. 
Long, narrow, light; the Gallic boot of love, 
A kind of cross between a boot and glove. 
But, not to tread on everlasting thorns. 
And sow in suffering what is reaped in 

corns, 
Compact, but easy, strong, substantial, square, 
Let native art compile the medium pair. 
The third remains, and let your tasteful skill 
Here show some relics of affection still; 
Let no stiff cowhide, reeking from the tan. 
No rough caoutchouc, no deformed brogan. 
Disgrace the tapering outline of your feet, 
Though yellow torrents gurgle through the 

street; 
But the patched calfskin arm against the flood 
In neat, light shoes, impervious to the mud. 



A RHYMED LESSON. 247 

Wear seemly gloves; not black, nor yet too 
light, 
And least of all the pair that once was white; 
Let the dead party where you told your loves 
Bury in peace its dead bouquets and gloves; 
Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids, 
But be a parent, — don't neglect your kids. 

Have a good hat; the secret of your looks 
Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks; 
Virtue may flourish in an old cravat. 
But man and nature scorn the shocking hat. 
Does beauty slight you from her gay abodes? 
Like bright Apollo, you must take to Rhoades^ 
Mount the new castor, — ice itself will melt; 
Boots, gloves may fail; the hat is always felt! 

Be shy of breast-pins; plain, well-ironed white. 
With small pearl buttons, — two of them in 

sight, — 
Is always genuine, while your gems may pass, 
'Though real diamonds, for ignoble glass; 
But spurn those paltry cis-Atlantic lies. 
That round his breast the shabby rustic ties; 



248 URANIA : 

Breathe not the name, profaned to hallow 

things 
The indignant laundress blushes when she 

brings ! 

Our freeborn race, averse to every check. 
Has tossed the yoke of Europe from its neck ; 
From the green prairie to the sea-girt town, 
The whole wide nation turns its collars down. 

The stately neck is manhood's manliest part; 
It takes the life-blood freshest from the heart; 
With short, curled ringlets close around it 

spread, 
How light and strong it lifts the Grecian head ! 
Thine, fair Erectheus of Minerva's wall; — 
Or thine, young athlete of the Louvre's hall, 
Smooth as the pillar flashing in the sun 
That filled the arena where thy wreaths were 

won, — 
Firm as the band that clasps the antlered spoil 
Strained in the winding anaconda's coil! 
I spare the contrast; it were only kind 
To be a little, nay, intensely blind: 



A RHYMED LESSON, 249 

Choose for yourself: I know it cuts your ear; 
I know the points will sometimes interfere; 
I know that often, like the filial John, 
Whom sleep surprised with half his drapery on, 
You show your features to the astonished town 
With one side standing and the other down; — 
But, O my friend ! my favorite fellow-man ! 
If Nature made you on her modern plan, 
Sooner than wander with your windpipe bare, — 
The fruit of Eden ripening in the air, — 
With that lean head-stalk, that protruding chin, 
Wear standing collars, were they made of tin! 
And have a neck-cloth, — by the throat of Jove ! 
Cut from the funnel of a rusty stove! 

The long-drawn lesson narrows to its close. 
Chill, slender, slow, the dwindled current flows; 
Tired of the ripples on its feeble springs, 
Once more the Muse unfolds her upward wings. 

Land of my birth, with this unhallowed 
tongue, 
Thy hopes, thy dangers, I perchance had 

sung; 



250 URANIA: 

But who shall sing, in brutal disregard 
Of all the essentials of the " native bard " ? 
Lake, sea, shore, prairie, forest, mountain, 
fall, 
His eye omnivorous must devour them all; 
The tallest summits and the broadest tides 
His foot must compass with its giant strides. 
Where Ocean thunders, where Missouri rolls. 
And tread at once the tropics and the poles; 
His food all forms of earth, fire, water, air. 
His home all space, his birth-place everywhere. 

Some grave compatriot, having seen perhaps 
The pictured page that goes in Worcester's 

Maps, 
And read in earnest what was said in jest, 
" Who drives fat oxen " — please to add the 

rest, — 
Sprung the odd notion that the poet's dreams 
Grow in the ratio of his hills and streams; 
And hence insisted that the aforesaid "bard" 
Pink of the future — fancy's pattern-card, — 
The babe of Nature in the "giant West," 
Must be of course her biggest and her best. 



A RHYMED LESSON. 251 

But, were it true that Nature's fostering sun 
Saves all its daylight for that favorite one, 
If for his forehead every wreath she means. 
And we, poor children, must not touch the 

greens; 
Since rocks and rivers cannot take the road 
To seek the elected in his own abode, 
Some voice must answer, for her precious heir. 
One solemn question: — Who shall pay his 

fare ? 

Oh, when at length the expected bard shall 

come. 
Land of our pride, to strike thine echoes 

dumb 
(And many a voice exclaims in prose and 

rhyme 
It's getting late, and he's behind his time). 
When all thy mountains clap their hands in 

joy, 

And all thy cataracts thunder "That's the 

boy,"- 
Say if with him the reign of song shall end, 
And Heaven declare its final dividend? 



252 URANIA: 

Be calm, dear brother! whose impassioned 
strain 
Comes from an alley watered by a drain; 
The little Mincio, dribbling to the Po, 
Beats all the epics of the Hoang Ho; 
If loved in earnest by the tuneful maid, 
Don't mind their nonsense, — never be afraid! 

The nurse of poets feeds her winged brood 
By common firesides, on familiar food; 
In a low hamlet, by a narrow stream, 
Where bovine rustics used to doze and dream. 
She filled young William's fiery fancy full. 
While old John Shakespeare talked of beeves 
and wool! 

No Alpine needle, with its climbing spire. 
Brings down for mortals the Promethean fire, 
If careless Nature have forgot to frame 
An altar worthy of the sacred flame. 

Unblest by any save the goat-herd's lines, 
Mont Blanc rose soaring through his "sea of 
pines"; 



A RHYMED LESSON. 253 

In vain the Arve and Arveiron dash, 
No hymn salutes them but the Ranz des Vaches, 
Till lazy Coleridge, by the morning's light. 
Gazed for a moment on the fields of white. 
And lo, the glaciers found at length a tongue, 
Mont Blanc was vocal, and Chamouni sung! 

Children of wealth or want, to each is given 
One spot of green, and all the blue of heaven ! 
Enough, if these their outward shows impart; 
The rest is thine, — the scenery of the heart. 

If passion's hectic in thy stanzas glow 
Thy heart's best life-blood ebbing as they flow. 
If with thy verse thy strength and bloom distil, 
Drained by the pulses of the fevered thrill; 
If sound's sweet effluence polarize thy brain. 
And thoughts turn crystals in thy fluid strain, — 
Nor rolling ocean, nor the prairie's bloom, 
Nor streaming cliffs, nor rayless cavern's gloom, 
Need'st thou, young poet, to inform thy line; 
Thy own broad signet stamps thy song divine ! 

Let others gaze where silvery streams are 
rolled. 
And chase the rainbow for its cup of gold; 



254: URANIA : 

To thee all landscapes wear a heavenly dye, 

Changed in the glance of thy prismatic eye; 

Nature evoked thee in sublimer throes, 

For thee her inmost Arethusa flows, — 

The mighty mother's living depths are stirred, — 

Thou art the starred Osiris of the herd! 

A few brief lines; they touch on solemn 

chords. 
And hearts may leap to hear their honest 

words; 
Yet, ere the' jarring bugle-blast is blown. 
The softer lyre shall breathe its soothing tone. 

New England! proudly may thy children 

claim 
Their honored birthright by its humblest name ! 
Cold are thy skies, but, ever fresh and clear. 
No rank malaria stains thine atmosphere; 
No fungous weeds invade thy scanty soil. 
Scarred by the ploughshares of unslumbering toil. 
Long may the doctrines by thy sages taught. 
Raised from the quarries where their sires 

have wrought. 



A RHYMED LESSON, 255 

Be like the granite of thy rock-ribbed land, — 
As slow to rear, as obdurate to stand; 
And as the ice, that leaves thy crystal mine, 
Chills the fierce alcohol in the Creole's wine, 
So may the doctrines of thy sober school 
Keep the hot theories of thy neighbors cool! 

If ever, trampling on her ancient path. 
Cankered by treachery, or inflamed by wrath. 
With smooth "Resolves," or with discordant 

cries, 
The mad Briareus of disunion rise, 
Chiefs of New England ! by your sires' renown, 
Dash the red torches of the rebel down! 
Flood his black hearth-stone till its flames 

expire. 
Though your old Sachem fanned his council- 
fire! 

But if at last, — her fading cycle run, — 
The tongue must forfeit what the arm has 

won. 
Then rise, wild Ocean ! roll thy surging shock 
Full on old Plymouth's desecrated rock! 



266 URANIA: 

Scale the proud shaft degenerate hands have 

hewn, 
Where bleeding Valor stained the flowers of 

June ! 
Sweep in one tide her spires and turrets down, 
And howl her dirge above Monadnoc's crown! 

List not the tale; the Pilgrim's hallowed 

shore, 
Though strewn with weeds, is granite at the 

core; 
Oh, rather trust that He who made her free 
Will keep her true, as long as faith shall be! 

Farewell! yet lingering through the destined 
hour. 
Leave, sweet Enchantress, one memorial flower ! 

An Angel, floating o'er the waste of snow 
That clad our western desert, long ago 
(The same fair spirit who, unseen by day. 
Shone as a star along the Mayflower's way), 
Sent, the first herald of the Heavenly plan. 
To choose on earth a resting-place for man, — 



A RHYMED LESSON, 257 

Tired with his flight along the unvaried field, 
Turned to soar upwards, when his glance re- 
vealed 
A calm, bright bay, enclosed in rocky bounds. 
And at its entrance stood three sister mounds. 

The Angel spake : " This threefold hill shall be * 
The home of Arts, the nurse of Liberty! 
One stately summit from its shaft shall pour 
Its deep-red blaze, along the darkened shore; 
Emblem of thoughts that, kindling far and 

wide. 
In danger's night shall be a nation's guide. 
One swelling crest the citadel shall crown. 
Its slanted bastions black with battle's frown. 
And bid the sons that tread its scowling 

heights 
Bare their strong arms for man and all his 

rights ! 
One silent steep along the northern wave 
Shall hold the patriarch's and the hero's grave; 
When fades the torch, when o'er the peaceful 

scene 
The embattled fortress smiles in living green, 



258 URANIA: 

The cross of Faith, the anchor staff of Hope, 

Shall stand eternal on its grassy slope; 

There through all time shall faithful Memory 

tell: 
"Here Virtue toiled, and Patriot Valor fell; 
Thy free, proud fathers slumber at thy side. 
Live as they lived, or perish as they died ! " 



NOTES. 

Note i. Page 223. 

OXf] wep (pijWcjv 7e»'e7y, roLTjde Kal dpdpQv. 

Iliac/ Yl., 146. 
Wesley quotes this line in his account of his early doubts 
and perplexities. See Southey's Li/e of Wesley ^ voL ii., 

p. 185. 

Note 2. Page 230. 
The churches referred to in the lines which follow are — 

1. "King's Chapel," the foundation of which was laid 
by Governor Shirley in 1749. 

2. The church in Brattle Square, consecrated in 1773. 
The completion of this edifice, the design of which in- 
cluded a spire, was prevented by the troubles of the 
Revolution, and its plain square tower presents nothing 
more attractive than its massive simplicity. In the front 



A RHYMED LESSON. 259 

of this tower is still seen, half embedded in the brick- 
work, a cannon-ball, which was thrown from the Ameri- 
can fortifications at Cambridge, during the bombardment 
of the city, then occupied by the British troops. 

3. The "Old South," first occupied for public worship 
in 1730. 

4. Park Street Church, built in 1809, the tall, white 
steeple of which is the most conspicuous of all the Boston 
spires. 

5. Christ Church, opened for public worship in 1723, 
and containing a set of eight bells, the only chime in 
Boston. 

Note 3. Page 234. 
For the propriety of the term " Ce/^ic blackness," see 
Laurence's Lectures (Salem, 1828), pp. 452, 453. But 
the ancient Celts appear to have been a xanthous, or fair- 
haired race. See Pritchard's Nat. Hist, of Man (London, 
1843), PP- 183, 193, 196. 

Note 4. Page 257. 

The name first given by the English to Boston was Tri- 
MOUNTAiN. The three hills upon and around which the 
city is Vjuilt are Beacon Hill, Fort Hill, and Copp's Hill. 

In the early records of the colony, it is mentioned, 
under date of May 6, 1635, ^^^^ "^ Beacon is to be set 
on the Sentry hill, at Boston, to give notice to the country 
of any danger; to be guarded by one man stationed near, 



260 URANIA: A RHYMED LESSON. 

and fired as occasion may be." The last beacon was blown 
down in 1789. 

The eastern side of Fort Hill was formerly " a ragged 
cliff, that seemed placed by nature in front of the entrance 
to the harbor for the purposes of defence, to which it was 
very soon applied, and from which it obtained its present 
name." Its summit is now a beautiful green enclosure. 

Copp's Hill was used as a burial-ground from a very 
early period. The part of it employed for this purpose 
slopes toward the water upon the northern side. From 
its many interesting records of the dead, I select the fol- 
lowing, which may serve to show what kind of dust it 
holds : — 

" Here lies buried in a 

Stone Grave 10 feet deep, 

Cap* Daniel Malcolm Merch* 

who departed this Life 

October 23d, 1769, 

Aged 44 years, 

a true son of Liberty, 

a Friend to the Publick, 

an Enemy to oppression, 

and one of the foremost 

in opposing the Revenue Acts 

on America." 

The gravestone from which I copied this inscription is 
bruised and splintered by the bullets of the British soldiers. 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 

In the hour of twilight shadows 

The Puritan looked out; 
He thought of the "bloudy Salvages'* 

That lurked all round about, 
Of Wituwamet's pictured knife 

And Pecksuot's whooping shout; 
For the baby's limbs were feeble, 

Though his father's arms were stout. 

His home was a freezing cabin 

Too bare for the hungry rat, 
Its roof was thatched with ragged grass 

And bald enough of that; 
The hole that served for casement 

Was glazed with an ancient hat; 
And the ice was gently thawing 

From the log whereon he sat. 

Along the dreary landscape 
His eyes went to and fro, 
261 



262 THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 

The trees all clad in icicles, 

The streams that did not flow; 

A sudden thought flashed o'er him, ■ 
A dream of long ago, — 

He. smote his leathern jerkin 
And murmured " Even so ! " 

"Come hither, God-be-Glorified, 

And sit upon my knee. 
Behold the dream unfolding. 

Whereof I spake to thee 
By the winter's hearth in Leyden 

And on the stormy sea; 
True is the dream's beginning, — 

So may its ending be! 

"I saw in the naked forest 

Our scattered remnant cast, 
A screen of shivering branches 

Between them and the blast; 
The snow was falling round them. 

The dying fell as fast; 
I looked to see them perish, 

When lo, the vision passed. 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 263 

"Again mine eyes were opened; — 

The feeble had waxed strong, 
The babes had grown to sturdy men, 

The remnant was a throng; 
By shadowed lake and winding stream 

And all the shores along. 
The howling demons quaked to hear 

The Christian's godly song. 

"They slept, — the village fathers, — 

By river, lake, and shore. 
When far adown the steep of Time 

The vision rose once more; 
I saw along the winter snow 

A spectral column pour. 
And high above their broken* ranks 

A tattered flag they bore. 

"Their Leader rode before them, 

Of bearing calm and high. 
The light of Heaven's own kindling 

Throned in his awful eye; 
These were a Nation's champions 

Her dread appeal to try; 



264 THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 

God for the right! I faltered, 
And lo, the tram passed by, 

"Once more; — the strife is ended, 

The solemn issue tried, 
The Lord of Hosts, His mighty arm 

Has helped our Israel's side; 
Gray stone and grassy hillock 

Tell where our martyrs died/ 
But peaceful smiles the harvest. 

And stainless flows the tide. 

"A crash, — as when some swollen cloud 

Cracks o'er the tangled trees! 
With side to side, and spar to spar, 

Whose smoking decks are these? 
I know Saint George's blood-red cross, 

Thou Mistress of the Seas, — 
But what is she, whose streaming bars 

Roll out before the breeze? 

"Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, 
Whose thunders strive to quell 

The bellowing throats, the blazing lips, 
That pealed the Armada's knell! 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION, 265 

The mist was cleared, — a wreath of stars 
Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, 

And, wavering from its haughty peak, 
The cross of England fell! 

"O trembling Faith! though dark the morn, 

A heavenly torch is thine; 
While feebler races melt away, 

And paler orbs decline. 
Still shall the fiery pillar's ray 

Along thy pathway shine, 
To light the chosen tribe that sought 

This Western Palestine! 

"I see the living tide roll on; 

It crowns with flaming towers 
The icy capes of Labrador, 

The Spaniard's ' land of flowers*! 
It streams beyond the splintered ridge 

That parts the Northern showers; 
From eastern rock to sunset wave 

The Continent is ours 1 " 

He ceased, — the grim old Puritan, — 
Then softly bent to cheer 



2G6 THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 

The pilgrim-child, whose wasting face 

Was meekly turned to hear; 
And drew his toil-worn sleeve across, 

To brush the manly tear 
From cheeks that never changed in woe, 

And never blanched in fear. 

The wear}^ pilgrim slumbers, 

His resting-place unknown; 
His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, 

The dust was o'er him strown; 
The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, 

Along the sod were blown; 
His mound has melted into earth, 

His memory lives alone. 

So let it live unfading, 

The memory of the dead. 
Long as the pale anemone 

Springs where their tears were shed. 
Or, raining in the summer's wind 

In flakes of burning red, 
The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves 

The turf where once thev bled! 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 267 

Yea, when the frowning bulwarks 

That guard this holy strand 
Have sunk beneath the trampling surge 

In beds of sparkling sand, 
While in the waste of ocean 

One hoary rock shall stand 
Be this its latest legend, — 

Here was the Pilgrim's land! 



A MODEST REQUEST. 

COMPLIED WITH AFTER THE DINNER AT PRESIDENT 
EVERETT'S INAUGURATION. 

Scene, — a back parlor in a certain square, 
Or court, or lane, — in short no matter where ; 
Time, — early morning, dear to simple souls 
Who love its sunshine, and its fresh-baked 

rolls; 
Persons, — take pity on this telltale blush. 
That, like the ^^thiop, whispers "Hush, oh 

hush ! " 

Delightful scene ! where smiling comfort broods. 
Nor business frets, nor anxious care intrudes; 
O si sic omnia! were it ever so! 
But what is stable in this world below! 
Medio efonte, — Virtue has her faults, — 
The clearest fountains taste of Epsom salts; 
We snatch the cup and lift to drain it dry, — 
Its central dimple holds a drowning fly! 
268 



A MODEST REQUEST, 269 

Strong is the pine by Maine's ambrosial 

streams, 
But stronger augers pierce its thickest beams; 
No iron gate, no spiked and panelled door. 
Can keep out death, the postman, or the 

bore; — 

for a world where peace and silence reign. 
And blunted dulness terebrates in vain! 

— The door bell jingles, — enter Richard Fox, 
And takes this letter from his leathern box. 

"Dear Sir, 

In writing on a former day, 
One little matter I forgot to say; 

1 now inform you in a single line. 

On Thursday next our purpose is to dine. 
The act of feeding, as you understand. 
Is but a fraction of the work in hand; 
Its nobler half is that ethereal meat 
The papers call *the intellectual treat'; 
Songs, speeches, toasts, around the festive 

board. 
Drowned in the juice the College pumps afford; 
For only water flanks our knives and forks. 



270 A MODEST REQUEST. 

So, sink or float, we swim without the corks. 
Yours is the art, by native genius taught, 
To clothe in eloquence the naked thought; 
Yours is the skill its music to prolong 
Through the sweet effluence of mellifluous 

song; 
Yours the quaint trick to cram the pithy line 
That cracks so crisply over bubbling wine; 
And since success your various gifts attends. 
We, — that is I and all your numerous 

friends, — 
Expect from you, — your single self a host, — 
A speech, a song, excuse me, and a toast; 
Nay, not to haggle on so small a claim, 
A few of each, or several of the same. 
(Signed) Yours, most truly, " 

No ! my sight must fail, — 
If that ain't Judas on the largest scale! 

Well, this /> modest; — nothing else than that? 
My coat? my boots? my pantaloons? my hat? 
My stick? my gloves? as well as all my wits, 
Learning and linen, — everything that fits 1 



A MODEST REQUEST. 271 

Jack, said my lady, is it grog you'll try, 
Or punch, or toddy, if perhaps you're dry? 
Ah, said the sailor, though I can't refuse. 
You know, my lady, 'tain't for me to choose;^ 
I'll take the grog to finish off my lunch, 
And drink the toddy while you mix the punch. 



The Speech. (The speaker, rising to be seen, 
Looks very red, because so very green.) 
I rise — I rise — with unaffected fear, 
(Louder ! — speak louder ! — who the deuce can 

hear ?) 
I rise — I said — with undisguised dismay — 
— Such are my feelings as I rise, I say! 
Quite unprepared to face this learned throng, 
Already gorged with eloquence and song; 
Around my view are ranged on either hand 
The genius, wisdom, virtue of the land; 
"Hands that the rod of empire might have 

swayed ** 
Close at my elbow stir their lemonade; 
Would you like Homer learn to write and 

speak, 



272 A MODEST REQUEST. 

That bench is groaning with its weight of 

Greek; 
Behold the naturalist that in his teens 
Found six new species in a dish of greens; 
And lo, the master in a statelier walk, 
Whose annual ciphering takes a ton of chalk; 
And there the linguist, that by common roots 
Through all their nurseries tracks old Noah's 

shoots, — 
How Shem's proud children reared the As- 
syrian piles, 
While Ham's were scattered through the Sand- 
wich Isles! 

— Fired at the thought of all the present 

shows, 
My kindling fancy down the future flows; 
I see the glory of the coming days 
O'er Time's horizon shoot its streaming rays; 
Near and more near the radiant morning 

draws 
In living lustre (rapturous applause); 
From east to west the blazing heralds run. 
Loosed from the chariot of the ascending sun, 



A MODEST REQUEST. 273 

Through the long vista of uncounted years 
In cloudless splendor (three tremendous cheers). 
My eye prophetic, as the depths unfold, 
Sees a new advent of the age of gold; 
While o'er the scene new generations press, 
New heroes rise the coming time to bless, — 
Not such as Homer's, who, we read in Pope, 
Dined without forks and never heard of 

soap, — 
Not such as May to Marlborough Chapel 

brings, 
Lean, hungry, savage, anti-everythings. 
Copies of Luther in the pasteboard style, — 
But genuine articles, — the true Carlyle; 
While far on high the blazing orb shall shed 
Its central light on Harvard's holy head. 
And Learning's ensigns ever float unfurled 
Here in the focus of the new-born world! 

The speaker stops, and, trampling down the 

pause. 
Roars through the hall the thunder of applause. 
One stormy gust of long suspended Ahs! 
One whirlwind chaos of insane hurrahs! 



274 A MODEST REQUEST. 

The Song. But this demands a briefer line, — 
A shorter muse and not the old long Nine; — 
Long metre answers for a common song, 
Though common metre does not answer long. 

She came beneath the forest dome 

To seek its peaceful shade. 
An exile from her ancient home, — 

A poor forsaken maid; 
No banner, flaunting high above, 

No blazoned cross, she bore; 
One holy book of light and love 

Was all her worldly store. 

The dark brown shadows passed away. 

And wider spread the green, 
And, where the savage used to stray, 

The rising mart was seen; 
So, when the laden winds had brought 

Their showers of golden rain, 
Her lap some precious gleanings caught, 

Like Ruth's amid the grain. 

But wrath soon gathered uncontrolled 
Among the baser churls, 



A MODEST REQUEST, 21 d 

To see her ankles red with gold, 

Her forehead white with pearls; 

"Who gave to thee the glittering bands 
That lace thine azure veins? 

Who bade thee lift those snow-white hands 
We bound in gilded chains?" 

These are the gems my children gave, 

The stately dame replied; 
The wise, the gentle, and the brave, 

I nurtured at my side; 
If envy still your bosom stings, 

Take back their rims of gold; 
My sons will melt their wedding rings. 

And give a hundred fold ! 

The Toast. — Oh, tell me, ye who thoughtless 

ask 
Exhausted nature for a threefold task. 
In wit and pathos if one share remains, 
A safe investment for an ounce of brains? 
Hard is the job to launch the desperate pun, 
A pun-job dangerous as the Indian one. 
Turned by the current of some stronger wit 



276 A MODEST REQUEST. 

Back from the object that you mean to hit, 
Like the strange missile which the Australian 

throws, 
Your verbal boomerang slaps you on the nose. 
One vague inflection spoils the whole with 

doubt, 
One trivial letter ruins all, left out; 
A knot can choke a felon into clay, 
A not will save him, spelt without the k; 
The smallest word has some unguarded spot, 
And danger lurks in i without a dot. 

Thus great Achilles, who had shown his zeal • 
In healing wounds, died of a wounded heel; 
Unhappy chief, who, when in childhood doused. 
Had saved his bacon, had his feet been soused ! 
Accursed heel that killed a hero stout! 
Oh, had your mother known that you were out. 
Death had not entered at the trifling part 
That still defies the small chirurgeon's art 
With corns and bunions, — not the glorious John 
Who wrote the book we all have pondered on, — 
But other bunions, bound in fleecy hose, 
To "Pilgrim's Progress" unrelenting foes! 



A MODEST REQUEST. 277 

A health, unmingled with the reveller's wine, 

To him whose title is indeed divine; 

Truth's sleepless watchman on her midnight 

tower, 
Whose lamp burns brightest when the tempests 

lower. 
Oh, who can tell with what a leaden flight 
Drag the long watches of his weary night; 
While at his feet the hoarse and blinding gale 
Strews the torn wreck and bursts the fragile 

sail, 
When stars have faded, when the wave is dark, 
When rocks and sands embrace the foundering 

bark. 
And still he pleads with unavailing cry, 
Behold the light, O wanderer, look or die! 

A health, fair Themis! Would the enchanted 
vine 

Wreathed its green tendrils round this cup of 
thine; 

If Learning's radiance fill thy modern court. 

Its glorious sunshine streams through Black- 
stone's port! 



278 A MODEST REQUEST. 

Lawyers are thirsty, and their clients too, 
Witness at least, if memory serve me true, 
Those old tribunals, famed for dusty suits. 
Where men sought justice ere they brushed 

their boots; — 
And what can match, to solve a learned doubt. 
The warmth within that comes from "cold 

without"? 

Health to the art whose glory is to give 

The crowning boon that makes it life to live. 

Ask not her home ; — the rock where Nature 

flings 
Her arctic lichen, last of living things. 
The gardens, fragrant with the Orient's balm. 
From the low jasmine to the star-like palm. 
Hail her as mistress o'er the distant waves. 
And yield their tribute to her wandering slaves. 
Wherever, moistening the ungrateful soil. 
The tear of suffering tracks the path of toil. 
There, in the anguish of his fevered hours, 
Her gracious finger points to healing flowers; 
Where the lost felon steals away to die. 
Her soft hand waves before his closing eye; 



A MODEST REQUEST, 279 

Where hunted misery finds his darkest lair, 
The midnight taper shows her kneeling there ! 

Virtue, — the guide that men and nations own; 
And Law, the bulwark that protects her throne; 
And Health, — to all its happiest charm that 

lends; 
These and their servants, man's untiring 

friends; 
Pour the bright lymph that Heaven itself lets 

fall, — 
In one fair bumper let us toast them all! 



NUX POSTCCENATICA. 

I WAS sitting with my microscope, upon my 

parlor rug, 
With a very heavy quarto and a very lively 

bug; 
The true bug had been organized with only two 

antennae, 
But the humbug in the copperplate would have 

them twice as many. 

And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the empti- 
ness of art. 

How we take a fragment for the whole, and 
call the whole a part. 

When I heard a heavy footstep that was loud 
enough for two. 

And a man of forty entered, exclaiming, — 

**How d'ye do?" 

280 



NUX POSTCCENATICA. 281 

He was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid flesh 

and bone; 
He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was 

twenty stone; 
(It's odd how hats expand their brims as riper 

years invade. 
As if when life had reached its noon, it wanted 

them for shade !) 

I lost my focus, — dropped my book, — the 

bug, who. was a flea. 
At once exploded, and commenced experiments 

on me. 
They have a certain heartiness that frequently 

appalls, — 
Those mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar smalls ! 

"My boy," he said — (colloquial ways, — the 

vast, broad-hatted man), 
" Come dine with us on Thursday next, — you 

must, you know you can; 
We're going to have a roaring time, with lots 

of fun and noise. 
Distinguished guests, et cetera, the Judge, and 

all the boys." 



282 NUX POSTCCENATICA, 

Not so, — I said, — my temporal bones are 

showing pretty clear 
It's time to stop, — just look and see that hair 

above this ear; 
My golden days are more than spent, — and, 

what is very strange, 
If these are real silver hairs, Tm getting lots 

of change. 

Besides — my prospects — don't you know that 

people won't employ 
A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing 

like a boy? 
And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds 

upon a shoot. 
As if wisdom's old potato could not flourish at 

its root! 

It's a very fine reflection, when you're etching 

out a smile 
On a copper plate of faces that would stretch 

at least a mile, 
That, what with sneers from enemies, and 

cheapening shrugs of friends, 
It will cost you all the earnings that a month 

of labor lends! 



NUX POSTCCENATICA, 283 

It's a vastly pleasing prospect, when you're 
screwing out a laugh, 

That your very next year's income is dimin- 
ished by a half. 

And a little boy trips barefoot that Pegasus 
may go, 

And the baby's milk is watered that your Heli- 
con may flow! 

No; — the joke has been a good one, — but 

I'm getting fond of quiet. 
And I don't like deviations from my customary 

diet; 
So I think I will not go with you to hear the 

toasts and speeches. 
But stick to old Montgomery Place, and have 

some pig and peaches. 

The fat man answered: — Shut your mouth, 
and hear -the genuine creed; 

The true* essentials of a feast are only fun and 
feed; 

The force that wheels the planets round de- 
lights in spinning tops, 

And that young earthquake t'other day was 
great at shaking props. 



284 NUX POSTCCENATICA, 

I tell you what, philosopher, if all the longest 

heads 
That ever knocked their sinciputs in stretching 

on their beds 
Were round one great mahogany, I'd beat 

those fine old folks 

With twenty dishes, twenty fools, and twenty 

« 
clever jokes! 

Why, if Columbus should be there, the company 

would beg 
He'd show that little trick of his of balancing 

the egg! 
Milton to Stilton would give in, and Solomon 

to Salmon, 
And Roger Bacon be a bore, and Francis 

Bacon gammon! 

And as for all the " patronage *' of all the 

clowns and boors 
That squint their little narrow eyes at 'any freak 

of yours, 
Do leave them to your prosier friends, — such 

fellows ought to die 
When rhubarb is so very scarce and ipecac so 

high! 



NUX POSTCCENATICA, 285 

And so I come, — like Lochinvar, to tread a 

single measure, 
To purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar-plum 

of pleasure. 
To enter for the cup of glass that's run for 

after dinner, 
Which yields a single sparkling draught, then 

breaks and cuts the winner. 

Ah, that's the way delusion comes, — a glass 

of old Madeira, 
A pair of visual diaphragms revolved by Jane 

or Sarah, 
And down go vows and promises without the 

slightest question 
If eating words won't compromise the organs 

of digestion! 

And yet, among my native shades, beside my 
nursing mother, 

Where every stranger seems a friend, and every 
friend a brother, 

I feel the old convivial glow (unaided) o'er 
me stealing, — 

The warm, cham.pagny, old-particular, brandy- 
punchy feeling. 



286 NUX POSTCCBNATICA. 

We're all alike; — Vesuvius flings the scoriae 

from his fountain, 
But down they come in volleying rain back to 

the burning mountain; 
We leave, like those volcanic stones, our 

precious Alma Mater, 
But will keep dropping in again to see the 

dear old crater. 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 

This ancient silver bowl of mine, — it tells of 

good old times, 
Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry 

Christmas chimes; 
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, 

brave, and true, 
That dipped their ladle in the punch wheii 

this old bowl was new. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar, — so runs 

the ancient tale; 
'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose 

arm was like a flail; 
And now and then between the strokes, for 

fear his strength should fail, 
He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good 

old Flemish ale. 

287 



288 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOIVL. 

'Twas purchased by an English squire to please 

his loving dame, 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing 

for the same; 
And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig 

was found, 
'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and 

handed smoking round. 

But, changing hands, it reached at length a 
Puritan divine, 

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little 
wine. 

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, 
perhaps. 

He went to Leyden, where he found conven- 
ticles and schnapps. 

And then, of course, you know what's next, 

— it left the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in the Mayflower came, — a 

hundred souls and more, — 
Along with all the furniture, to fill their new 

abodes, — 
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a 

hundred loads. 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 289 

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was 

closing dim, 
When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and 

filled it to the brim; 
The little Captain stood and stirred the posset 

with his sword, 
And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged 

about the board. 

He poured the fiery Hollands in, — the man 

that never feared, — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped 

his yellow beard; 
And one by one the musketeers, — the men that 

fought and prayed, — 
All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and 

not a man afraid. 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the scream- 
ing eagle flew. 

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the 
soldier's wild halloo; 

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught 
to kith and kin, 

"Run from the white man when you find he 
smells of Hollands gin ! " 



290 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL, 

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread 

their leaves and snows, 
A thousand rubs had flattened down each little 

cherub's nose; 
When once again the bowl was filled, but not 

in mirth or joy, 
'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer 

her parting boy. 

Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good, — 

poor child, you'll never bear 
This working in the dismal trench, out in the 

midnight air; 
And if, — God bless me, — you were hurt, 

'twould keep away the chill; 
So John did drink, — and well he wrought that 

night at Bunker's Hill! 

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good 

old English cheer; 
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring 

its symbol here. 
'Tis but the fool that loves excess; — hast thou 

a drunken soul? 
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my 

silver bowl! 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL, 291 

I love the memory of the past, — its pressed 

yet fragrant flowers, — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls, — the 

ivy on its towers, — 
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, — my eyes 

grow moist and dim. 
To think of all the vanished joys that danced 

around its brim. 

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it 

straight to me; 
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the 

liquid be; 
And may the cherubs on its face protect me 

from the sin. 
That dooms one to those dreadful words, — 

"My dear, where have you been?" 



THE STETHOSCOPE SONG. 

A PROFESSIONAL BALLAD. 

There was a young man in Boston town 

He bought him a Stethoscope nice and new, 

All mounted and finished and polished down;^ 
With an ivory cap and a stopper too. 

It happened a spider within did crawl, 
And spun him a web of ample size, 

Wherein there chanced one day to fall 
A couple of very imprudent flies. 

The first was a bottle-fly, big and blue. 

The second was smaller, and thin and long; 

So there was a concert between the two. 

Like an octave flute and a tavern gong. 

Now being from Paris but recently. 

This fine young man would show his skill; 

And so they gave him, his hand to try, 
A hospital patient extremely ill. 
292 



THE STETHOSCOPE SONG, 293 

Some said that his /wer was short of di/e. 
And some that his hear/ was over size, 

While some kept arguing all the while 

He was crammed with tubercles up to his 
eyes. 

This fine young man then up stepped he, 
And all the doctors made a pause; 

Said he, — The man must die, you see. 
By the fifty-seventh of Louis's laws. 

But, since the case is a desperate one. 
To explore his chest it may be well; 

For, if he should die and it were not done, 
You know the autopsy would not tell. 

Then out his stethoscope he took, 

And on it placed his curious ear; 

Mon Dieu! said he, with a knowing look. 

Why, here is a sound that's mighty queer! 

The bourdonnement is very clear, — 
Amphoric buzzing, as I'm alive! 

Five doctors took their turn to hear; 
Afnphoric buzzing, said all the five. 



294 THE STETHOSCOPE SONG, 

There's empyema beyond a doubt; 

We'll plunge a trocar in his side. — 
The diagnosis was made out, 

They tapped the patient; so he died. 

Now such as hate new-fashioned toys 
Began to look extremely glum; 

They said that rattles were made for boys, 

And vowed that his buzzing was all a hum. 

There was an old lady had long been sick. 
And what was the matter none did know; 

Her pulse was slow, though her tongue was 
quick; 
To her this knowing youth must go. 

So there the nice old lady sat. 

With phials and boxes all in a row; 

She asked the young doctor what he was at. 
To thump her and tumble her ruffles so. 

Now, when the stethoscope came out, 

The flies began to buzz and whiz; — 

O ho! the matter is clear, no doubt; 
An aneurism there plainly is. 



THE STETHOSCOPE SONG. 295 

The 3rmf de rape and the bruit de scie 

And the bruit de diable are all combined; 

How happy Bouillaud would be, 

If he a case like this could find! 

Now, when the neighboring doctors found 
A case so rare had been descried, 

They every day her ribs did pound 
In squads of twenty; so she died. 

Then six young damsels, slight and frail. 

Received this kind young doctor's cares; 

They all were getting slim and pale, 

And short of breath on mounting stairs. 

They all made rhymes with " sighs " and " skies," 
And loathed their puddings and buttered 
rolls. 

And dieted, much to their friends' surprise, 
On pickles and pencils and chalk and coals. 

So fast their little hearts did bound. 

The frightened insects buzzed the more; 

So over all their chests he found 

The rale sifflant^ and rale sonore. 



296 THE STETHOSCOPE SONG, 

He shook his head; — there's grave disease^ — • 
I greatly fear you all must die; 

A slight post-mortem, if you please, 
Surviving friends would gratify. 

The six young damsels wept aloud, 

Which so prevailed on six young men, 

That each his honest love avowed. 
Whereat they all got well again. 

This poor young man was all aghast; 

The price of stethoscopes came down; 
And so he was reduced at last 

To practise in a country town. 

The doctors being very sore, 

A stethoscope ■ they did devise, 
That had a rammer to clear the bore, 

With a knob at the end to kill the flies. 

Now use your ears, all you that can. 
But don't forget to mind your eyes, 

Or you may be cheated, like this young man, 
By a couple of silly, abnormal flies. 



EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM. 

THE STABILITY OF SCIENCE. 

The feeble seabirds, blinded in the storms, 
On some tall lighthouse dash their little forms, 
And the rude granite scatters for their pains 
Those small deposits that were meant for brains. 
Yet the proud fabric in the morning's sun 
Stands all unconscious of the mischief done; 
Still the red beacon pours its evening rays 
For the lost pilot with as full a blaze. 
Nay, shines, all radiance, o'er the scattered fleet 
Of gulls and boobies brainless at its feet. 

I tell their fate, though courtesy disclaims 
To call our kind by such ungentle names; 
Yet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare. 
Think of their doom, ye simple, and beware ! 

See where aloft its hoary forehead rears 
The towering pride of twice a thousand years 1 
297 



298 EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM. 

Far, far below the vast incumbent pile 
Sleeps the gray rock from art's ^Egean isle; 
Its massive courses, circling as they rise, 
Swell from the waves to mingle with the skies; 
There every quarry lends its marble spoil, 
And clustering ages blend their common toil; 
The Greek, the Roman, reared its ancient 

walls. 
The silent Arab arched its mystic halls; 
In that fair niche, by countless billows laved, 
Trace the deep lines that Sydenham engraved; 
On yon broad front that breasts the changing 

swell, 
Mark where the ponderous sledge of Hunter 

fell; 
By that square buttress look where Louis stands. 
The stone yet warm from his uplifted hands; 
And say, O Science, shall thy life-blood freeze 
When fluttering folly flaps on walls like these? 

A PORTRAIT. 

Simple in youth, but not austere in age; 
Calm; but not cold, and cheerful though a sagej; 



EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM. 299 

Too true to flatter, and too kind to sneer, 
And only just when seemingly severe; 
So gently blending courtesy and art, 
That wisdom's lips seemed borrowing friend- 
ship's heart; 
Taught by the sorrows that his age had known 
In others' trials to forget his own, 
As hour by hour his lengthened day declined, 
The sweeter radiance lingered o'er his mind. 
Cold were the lisp that spoke his early praise. 
And hushed the voices of his morning days, 
Yet the same accents dwelt on every tongue. 
And love renewing kept him ever young. 

A SENTIMENT. 

*0 ^to5 j8paxv9 — life is but a song — 

'H T€.yyr] jjiaKprj — art is wondrous long; 

Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair, 

And Patience smiles, though Genius may 

despair. 
Give us but knowledge, though by slow degrees. 
And blend our toil with moments bright as 

these; 



300 EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM. 

Let Friendship's accents cheer our doubtful 

way, 
And Love's pure planet lend its guiding ray, — 
Our tardy Art shall wear an angel's wings. 
And life shall lengthen with the joy it brings! 



A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. 

As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet 

Breathes soft the Alpine rose, 
So, through life's desert springing sweet. 

The flower of friendship grows; 
And as, where'er the roses grow. 

Some rain or dew descends, 
*Tis nature's law that wine should flow 

To wet the lips of friends. 

Then once again, before we part, 
My empty glass shall ring; 

And he that has the warmest heart 
Shall loudest laugh and sing. 

They say we were not born to eat; 

But gray-haired sages think 
It means, — Be moderate in your meat, 

And partly live to drink; 
301 



302 A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. 

For baser tribes the rivers flow 
That know not wine or song; 

Man wants but little drink below, 
But wants that little strong. 

Then once again, etc. 

If one bright drop is like the gem 

That decks a monarch's crown, 
One goblet holds a diadem 

Of rubies melted down! 
A fig for Caesar's blazing brow, 

But, like the Egyptian queen, 
Bid each dissolving jewel glow 

My thirsty lips between. 

Then once again, etc. 

The Grecian's mound, the Roman's urn, 

Are silent when we call. 
Yet still the purple grapes return 

To cluster on the wall; 
It was a bright Immortal's head 

They circled with the vine, 



A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. 303 

And o'er their best and bravest dead 
They poured the dark-red wine. 

Then once again, etc. 

Methinks o'er every sparkling glass 

Young Eros waves his wings, 
And echoes o'er its dimples pass 

From dead Anacreon's strings; 
And, tossing round its beaded brim 

Their locks of floating gold. 
With bacchant dance and choral hymn 

Return the nymphs of old. 

Then once again, etc. 

A welcome then to joy and mirth, 

From hearts as fresh as ours, . 
To scatter o'er the dust of earth 

Their sweetly mingled flowers; 
'Tis Wisdom's self the cup that fills 

In spite of Folly's frown, 
And Nature, from her vine-clad hills, 

That rains her life-blood down! 

Then once again, etc. 



A SENTIMENT. 

The pledge of Friendship! it is still divine, 
Though watery floods have quenched its burn- 
ing wine; 
Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold, 
The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold; 
Around its brim the hand of Nature throws - 
A garland sweeter than the banquet's rose. 
Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed 

bowl. 
Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon's soul, 
But dearer memories gild the tasteless wave 
That fainting Sidney perished as he gave. 
'Tis the heart's current lends the cup its glow, 
Whate'er the fountain whence the draught may 

flow, — 
The diamond dew-drops sparkling through the 

sand. 
Scooped by the Arab in his sunburnt hand. 
Or the dark streamlet oozing from the snow, 
804 



A SENTIMENT. 305 

Where creep and crouch the shuddering Es- 
quimaux; — 
Ay, in the stream that ere again we meet, 
Shall burst the pavement, glistening at our feet, 
And, stealing silent from its leafy hills, 
Thread all our alleys with its thousand rills, — 
In each pale draught if generous feeling blend, 
And o'er the goblet friend shall smile on 

friend. 
Even cold Cochituate every heart shall warm, 
And genial Nature still defy reform 1 



TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND. 

The seed that wasteful Autumn cast 
To waver on its stormy blast, 
Long o'er the wintry desert tost, 
Its living germ has never lost; 
Dropped by the weary tempest's wing, 
It feels the kindling ray of spring, 
And starting from its dream of death. 
Pours on the air its perfumed breath. 

So, parted by the rolling flood. 
The love that springs from common blood 
Needs but a single sunlit hour 
Of mingling smiles to bud and flower; 
Unharmed its slumbering life has flown 
From shore to shore, from zone to zone, 
Where summer's falling roses stain 
The tepid waves of Pontchartrain, 
Or where the lichen creeps below 
Katahdin's wreaths of whirling snow! 
306 



TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND, 307 

Though fiery sun and stiffening cold 
May warp the fair ancestral mould, 
No winter chills, no summer drains 
The life-blood drawn from English veins, — 
Still bearing, wheresoe'er it flows. 
The love that with its fountain rose. 
Unchanged by space, unwronged by time. 
From age to age, from clime to clime! 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 

(anniversary of the BERKSHIRE AGRICULTURAL- 
SOCIETY, OCT. 4TH, 1849.) 

Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's 

gleam ! 
Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team, 
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sun-burnt 

brow. 
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough! 

First in the field before the reddening sun. 
Last in the shadows when the day is done, 
Line after line, along the bursting sod, 
Marks the broad acres where his feet have 

trod; 
Still, where he treads the stubborn clods 

divide. 
The smooth fresh furrow opens deep and wide; 
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves. 
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves; 
308 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 309 

Up the steep hill-side, where the laboring train 
Slants the long track that scores the level plain; 
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing 

clay. 
The patient convoy breaks its destined way; 
At every turn the loosening chains resound. 
The swinging ploughshare circles glistening 

round. 
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears. 
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. 

These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings 
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings: 
This is the page, whose letters shall be seen 
Changed by the sun to words of living green; 
This is the scholar, whose immortal pen 
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men; 
These are the lines, O heaven-commanded toil, 
That fill thy deed, — the charter of the soil ! 

O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast 
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest. 
How thy sweet features, kind to every clime, 
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of time ! 



310 THE PLOUGHMAN. 

We stain thy flowers, — they blossom o'er the 

dead; 
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread; 
O'er the red field that trampling strife has 

torn, 
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn; 
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain. 
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 
Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms 
Round the fresh clasp of thine embracing 

arms, 
Let not our virtues in thy love decay. 
And thy fond weakness waste our strength away. 

No! by these hills, whose banners now dis- 
played, 
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed: 
By yon twin crest, amid the sinking sphere 
Last to dissolve, and first to reappear; 
By these fair plains the mountain circle screens. 
And feeds in silence from its dark ravines; 
True to their home, these faithful arms shall 

toil 
To crown with peace their own untainted soil; 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 311 

And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind. 
If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind, 
These stately forms, that bending even now 
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble 

plough. 
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, 
The same stern iron in the same right hand. 
Till Graylock thunders to the parting sun. 
The sword has rescued what the ploughshare 

won! 



A POEM 

DELIVERED AT THE DEDICATION OF THE 

PITTSFIELD CEMETERY. 

September 9, 1850. 

Angel of Death! extend thy silent reign! 
Stretch thy dark sceptre o'er this new domain! 
No sable car along the winding road 
Has borne to earth its unresisting load; 
No sudden mound has risen yet to show 
Where the pale slumberer folds his arms below; 
No marble gleams to bid his memory live 
In the brief lines that hurrying Time can give; 
Yet, O Destroyer! from thy shrouded throne 
Look on our gift; this realm is all thine own! 

Fair is the scene; its sweetness oft beguiled 
From their dim paths the children of the 
wild; 

312 



PITTSFIELD CEMETERY. 313 

The dark-haired maiden loved its grassy dells, 
The feathered warrior claimed its wooded 

swells, 
Still on its slopes the ploughman^s ridges show 
The pointed flints that left his fatal bow, 
Chipped with rough art and slow barbarian 

toil, — 
Last of his wrecks that strews the alien soil! 

Here spread the fields that waved the ripened 

store 
Till the brown arms of Labor held no more; 
The scythe's broad meadow with its dusky 

blush; 
The sickle's harvest with its velvet flush; 
The green-haired maize, her silken tresses laid, 
In soft luxuriance, on her harsh brocade; 
The gourd that swells beneath her tossing 

plume; 
The coarser wheat that rolls in lakes of bloom, — 
Its coral stems and milk-white flowers alive 
With the wide murmurs of the scattered hive; 
The glossy apple with the pencilled streak 
Of morning painted on its southern cheek; 



314 PITTSFIELD CEMETERY. 

The pear's long necklace strung with golden 

drops, 
Arched, like the banyan, o'er its hasty props; 
The humble roots that paid the laborer's care 
With the cheap luxuries 'wealth consents to 

spare ; 
The healing herbs whose virtues could not save 
The hand that reared them from the neighbor- 
ing grave. 

Yet all its varied charms, forever free 
From task and tribute. Labor yields to thee; 
No more when April sheds her fitful rain 
The sower's hand shall cast its flying grain; 
No more when Autumn strews the flaming 

leaves 
The reaper's band shall gird its yellow sheaves; 
For thee alike the circling seasons flow 
Till the first blossoms heave the latest snow. 
In the stiff clod below the whirling drifts, 
In the loose soil the springing herbage lifts, 
In the hot dust beneath the parching weeds 
Life's wilting flower shall drop its shrivelled 

seeds; 



PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, 315 

Its germ entranced in thy unbreathing sleep 
Till what thou sowest mightier angels reap! 

Spirit of Beauty! let thy graces blend 
With loveliest Nature all that Art can lend> 
Come from the bowers where Summer's life- 
blood flows 
Through the red lips of June's half-open rose, 
Dressed in bright hues, the loving sunshine's 

dower; 
For tranquil Nature owns no mourning flower. 
Come from the forest where the beech's 

screen 
Bars the fierce noonbeam with its flakes of 

green; 
Stay the rude axe that bares the shadowy 

plains, 
Stanch the deep wound that dries the maple's 

veins. 
Come with the stream whose silver-braided 

rills 
Fling their unclasping bracelets from the hills, 
Till in one gleam, beneath the forest's wings. 
Melts the white glitter of a hundred springs. 



316 PITTSFIELD CEMETERY. 

Come from the steeps where look majestic 

forth 
From their twin thrones the Giants of the North 
On the huge shapes that, crouching at their 

knees, 
Stretch their broad shoulders, rough with shaggy 

trees. 
Through the wide waste of ether, not in vain, 
Their softened gaze shall reach our distant 

plain; 
There, while the mourner turns his aching eyes 
On the blue mounds that print the bluer skies. 
Nature shall whisper that the fading view 
Of mightiest grief may wear a heavenly hue. 

Cherub of Wisdom! let thy marble page 
Leave its sad lesson, new to every age; 
Teach us to live, not grudging every breath 
To the chill winds that waft us on to death. 
But ruling calmly every pulse it warms, 
And tempering gently every word it forms. 

Seraph of Love! in heaven's adoring zone, 
Nearest of all around the central throne. 



PITTSFIELD CEMETERY, 317 

While with soft hands the pillowed turf we 

spread 
That soon shall hold us in its dreamless bed, 
With the low whisper — Who shall first be laid 
In the dark chamber's yet unbroken shade? — 
Let thy sweet radiance shine rekindled here, 
And all we cherish grow more truly dear. 
Here in the gates of Death's o'erhanging vault, 
Oh, teach us kindness for our brother's fault; 
Lay all our wrongs beneath this peaceful sod, 
And lead our hearts to Mercy and its God. 

Father of all! in Death's relentless claim 

W^e read Thy mercy by its sterner name; 

In the bright flower that decks the solemn 

bier. 
We see Thy glory in its narrowed sphere; 
In the deep lessons that affliction draws. 
We trace the curves of Thy encircling laws; 
In the long sigh that sets our spirits free. 
We own the love that calls us back to Thee! 

Through the hushed street, along the silent 
plain, 



318 PITTSFIELD CEMETERY. 

The spectral future leads its mourning train, 
Dark with the shadows of uncounted bands, 
Where man's white lips and woman's wringing 

hands 
Track the still burden, rolling slow before, 
That love and kindness can protect no more; 
The smiling babe that, called to mortal strife. 
Shuts its meek eyes and drops its little life; 
The drooping child that prays in vain to live. 
And pleads for help its parent cannot give; 
The pride of beauty stricken in its flower; 
The strength of manhood broken in an hour; 
Age in its weakness, bowed by toil and care, 
Traced in sad lines beneath its silvered hair. 
The sun shall set, and heaven's resplendent 

spheres 
Gild the smooth turf unhallowed yet by tears, 
But ah, how soon the evening stars will shed 
Their sleepless light around the slumbering dead ! 

Take them, O Father, in immortal trust! 
Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust. 
Till the last angel rolls the stone away, 
And a new morning brings eternal day! 



ASTR^A: 

THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS.* 

What secret charm, long whispering in mine 

ear, 
Allures, attracts, compels, and chains me here, 
Where murmuring echoes call me to resign 
Their sacred haunts to sweeter lips than mine; 
Where silent pathways pierce the solemn shade, 
In whose still depths my feet have never 

strayed ; 
Here, in the home where grateful children meet, 
And I, half alien, take the stranger's seat, 
Doubting, yet hoping that the gift I bear 
May keep its bloom in this unwonted air? 
Hush, idle fancy, with thy needless art, 
Speak from thy fountains, O my throbbing 

heart ! 

* A poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society 
of Yale College, August 14, 1850. 
319 



320 ASTRy^A: 

Say, shall I trust these trembling lips to tell 
The fireside tale that memory knows so well? 
How, in the days of Freedom's dread campaign, 
A home-bred school-boy left his village plain. 
Slow faring southward, till his wearied feet 
Pressed the worn threshold of this fair retreat; 
How, with his comely face and gracious mien. 
He joined the concourse of the classic green, 
Nameless, unfriended, yet by Nature blest 
With the rich tokens that she loves the best; 
The flowing locks, his youth's redundant crown, 
Smoothed o'er a brow unfurrowed by a frown; 
The untaught smile that speaks so passing 

plain 
A world all hope, a past without a stain; 
The clear-hued cheek, whose burning current 

glows 
Crimson in action, carmine in repose; 
Gifts such as purchase, with unminted gold. 
Smiles from the young and blessings from the 

old. 

Say, shall my hand with pious love restore 
The faint, far pictures time beholds no more? 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 321 

How the grave Senior, he whose later fame 
Stamps on our laws his own undying name, 
Saw from on high, with half -paternal joy, 
Some spark of promise in the studious boy. 
And bade him enter, with benignant tone, 
Those stately precincts which he called his 

own. 
Where the fresh student and the youthful sage 
Read by one taper from the common page; 
How the true comrade, whose maturer date 
Graced the large honors of his ancient State, 
Sought his young friendship, which through 

every change 
No time could weaken, no remove estrange; 
How the great Master, reverend, solemn, wise. 
Fixed on his face those calm, majestic eyes, 
Full of grave meaning, where a child might 

read 
The Hebraist*s patience and the Pilgrim's 

creed. 
But warm with flashes of parental fire 
That drew the stripling to his second sire; 
How kindness ripened, till the youth might dare 
Take the low seat beside his sacred chair, 



322 ASTR^A: 

While the gray scholar, bending o'er the young, 
Spelled the square types of Abraham's ancient 

tongue, 
Or with mild rapture stooped devoutly o*er 
His small coarse leaf, alive with curious lore; 
Tales of grim judges, at whose awful beck 
Flashed the broad blade across a royal neck 
Or learned dreams of Israel's long-lost child 
Found in the wanderer of the western wild. 

Dear to his age were memories such as these. 
Leaves of his June in life's autum.nal breeze; 
Such were the tales that won my boyish ear, 
Told in low tones that evening loves to hear. 

Thus in the scene I pass so lightly o'er, 
Trod for a moment, then beheld no more, 
Strange shapes and dim, unseen by other eyes. 
Through the dark portals of the past arise; 
I see no more the fair embracing throng, 
I hear no echo to my saddened song, 
No more I heed the kind or curious gaze. 
The voice of blame, the rustling thrill of 
praise; 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 323 

Alone, alone, the awful past I tread 

White with the marbles of the slumbering 

dead; 
One shadowy form my dreaming eyes behold 
That leads my footsteps as it led of old. 
One floating voice, amid the silence heard. 
Breathes in my ear love's long unspoken 

word ; — 
These are the scenes thy youthful eyes have 

known; 
My heart's warm pulses claim them as its own! 
The sapling compassed in thy fingers' clasp. 
My arms scarce circle in their twice-told grasp, 
Yet in each leaf of yon o'ershadowing tree 
I read a legend that was traced by thee. 
Year after year the living wave has beat 
These smooth-worn channels with its trampling 

feet. 
Yet in each line that scores the grassy sod 
I see the pathway where thy feet have trod. 
Though from the scene that hears my faltering 

lay, 
The few that loved thee long have passed 

away, 



324 ASTRAiA: 

Thy sacred presence all the landscape fills, 
Its groves and plains and adamantine hills! 

Ye who have known the sudden tears that 

flow, — 
Sad tears, yet sweet, the dews of twilight 

woe, — 
When, led by chance, your wandering eye has 

crossed 
Some poor memorial of the loved and lost, 
Bear with my weakness as I look around 
On the dear relics of this holy ground. 
These bowery cloisters, shadowed and serene. 
My dreams have pictured ere mine eyes have 

seen. 

And oh, forgive me, if the flower I brought 
Droops in my hand beside this burning thought; 
The hopes and fears that marked this destined 

hour. 
The chill of doubt, the startled throb of power. 
The flush of pride, the trembling glow of 

shame. 
All fade away and leave my Father's name! 



I 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 325 

Winter is past; the heart of Nature warms 
Beneath the wrecks of unresisted storms; 
Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen, 
The southern slopes are fringed with tender 

green; 
On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves, 
Spring's earliest nurslings spread their glowing 

leaves. 
Bright with the hues from wider pictures won. 
White, azure, golden, — drift, or sky, or sun; — 
The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast 
The frozen trophy torn from winter's crest; 
The violet, gazing on the arch of blue 
Till her own iris wears its deepened hue; 
The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the 

mould 
Naked and shivering with his cup of gold. 
Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on 

high 
Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky; 
On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves 
The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves; 
The housefly, stealing from his narrow grave. 
Drugged with the opiate that November gave, 



326 ASTR^A: 

Beats with faint wing against the sunny pane, 
Or crawls, tenacious, o'er its lucid plain; 
From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls, 
In languid curves, the gliding serpent crawls; 
The bog's green harper, thawing from his sleep, 
Twangs a hoarse note and tries a shortened 

leap; 
On floating rails that face the softening noons 
The still shy turtles range their dark platoons, 
Or toiling, aimless, o'er the mellowing fields, 
Trail through the grass their tessellated shields. 

At last young April, ever frail and fair, 
Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, 
Chased to the margin of receding floods 
O'er the soft meadows starred with opening 

buds, 
In tears and blushes sighs herself away, 
And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of 

May. 

Then the proud tulip lights her beacon 
blaze. 
Her clustering curls the hyacinth displays, 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 327 

O'er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-lis, 
Like blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and free; 
With yellower flames the lengthened sunshine 

glows. 
And love lays bare the passion-breathing rose; 
Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge 
The rival lily hastens to emerge. 
Her snowy shoulders glistening as she strips, 
Till morn is sultan of her parted lips. 

Then bursts the song from every leafy glade, 
The yielding season's bridal serenade; 
Then flash the wings returning summer calls 
Through the deep arches of her forest halls; 
The bluebird breathing from his azure plumes 
The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle 

blooms; 
The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly 

down, 
Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown; 
The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire 
Rent by the whirlwind from a blazing spire; 
The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, 
Repeats, staccato, his peremptory note; 



328 ASTR/EA: 

The crackbrained bobolink courts his crazy 

mate, 
Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight; 
Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings. 
Feels the soft air and spreads his idle wings; — 

Why dream I here within these caging walls, 
Deaf to her voice while blooming Nature calls; 
Peering and gazing with insatiate looks 
Through blinding lenses, or in wearying books? 
Off, gloomy spectres of the shrivelled past, 
Fly with the leaves that filled the Autumn 

blast ! 
Ye imps of Science, whose relentless chains 
Lock the warm tides within these living veins, 
Close your dim cavern, while its captive strays 
Dazzled and giddy in the morning's blaze! 

What life is this, that spreads in sudden 

birth 
Its plumes of light around a new-born earth? 
Is this the sun that brought the unwelcome 

day, 
Pallid and glimmering with his lifeless ray, 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 329 

Or through the sash that bars yon narrow cage 
Slanted, intrusive, on the opened page? 
Is this soft breath the same complaining gale 
That filled my slumbers with its murmuring 

wail? 
Is this green mantle of elastic sod 
The same brown desert with its frozen clod. 
Where the last ridges of the dingy snow 
Lie till the windflower blooms unstained below? 

Thus to my heart its wonted tides return 
When sullen Winter breaks his crystal urn, 
And o'er the turf in wild profusion showers 
Its dewy leaflets and ambrosial flowers. 
In vacant rapture for a while I range 
Through the wide scene of universal change, 
Till, as the statue in its nerves of stone 
Felt the new senses wakening one by one. 
Each long-closed inlet finds its destined ray 
Through the dark curtain Spring has rent away. 
I crush the buds the clustering lilacs bear; 
The same sweet fragrance that I loved is there; 
The same fresh hues each opening disk reveals; 
Soft as of old each silken petal feels; 



330 ASTR/EA: 

The birch's rind its flavor still retains, 
Its boughs still ringing with the selfsame strains; 
Above, around, rekindling Nature claims 
Her glorious altars wreathed in living flames; 
Undimmed, unshadowed, far as morning shines, 
Feeds with fresh incense her eternal shrines. 
Lost in her arms, her burning life I share. 
Breathe the wild freedom of her perfumed air. 
From Heaven's fair face the long-drawn shad- 
ows roll, 
And all its sunshine floods my opening soul! 

Yet in the darksome crypt I left so late, 
Whose only altar is its rusted grate, — 
Sepulchral, rayless, joyless, as it seems. 
Shamed by the glare of May's refulgent 

beams, — 
While the dim seasons dragged their shrouded 

train, 
Its paler splendors were not quite in vain. 
From these dull bars the cheerful firelight's 

glow 
Streamed through the casement o'er the spec- 
tral snow; 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 331 

Here, while the night-wind wreaked its frantic 

will 
On the loose ocean and the rock-bound hill, 
Rent the cracked topsail from its quivering 

yard. 
And rived the oak a thousand storms had 

scarred, 
Fenced by these walls the peaceful taper shone, 
Nor felt a breath to swerve its trembling cone. 

Not all unblest the mild interior scene 
When the red curtain spread its folded screen; 
O'er some light task the lonely hours were 

past. 
And the long evening only flew too fast; 
Or the wide chair its leathern arms would 

lend. 
In genial welcome to some easy friend. 
Stretched on its bosom with relaxing nerves, 
Slow moulding, plastic, to its hollow curves; 
Perchance indulging, if of generous creed. 
In brave Sir Walter's dream-compelling weed. 
Or, happier still, the evening hour would bring 
To the round table its expected ring. 



332 ASTR/EA: 

And while the punch bowl's sounding depths 

were stirred, — 
Its silver cherubs smiling as they heard, — 
O'er caution's head the blinding hood was 

flung, 
And friendship loosed the jesses of the tongue. 

Such the warm life this dim retreat has 
known, 
Not quite deserted when its guests were flown; 
Nay, filled with friends, an unobtrusive set, 
Guiltless of calls and cards and etiquette, 
Ready to answer, never known to ask. 
Claiming no service, prompt for every task. 

On those dark shelves no housewife tool 

profanes. 
O'er his mute files the monarch folio reigns; 
A mingled race, the wreck of chance and time. 
That talk all tongues and breathe of every 

clime; 
Each knows his place, and each may claim his 

part 
In some quaint corner of his master's heart. 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, ' 333 

This old Decretal, won from Kloss's hoards, 
Thick-leafed, brass-cornered, ribbed with oaken 

boards, 
Stands the gray patriarch of the graver rows, 
Its fourth ripe century narrowing to its close; 
Not daily conned, but glorious still to view 
With glistening letters wrought in red and blue. 
There towers Stagira's all-embracing sage. 
The Aldine anchor on his opening page; 
There sleep the births of Plato's heavenly 

mind 
In yon dark tome by jealous clasps confined, 
*'01im e libris" — (dare I call it mine?) 
Of Yale's great Head and Killingworth's divine! 
In those square sheets the songs of Maro fill 
The silvery types of smooth-leafed Baskerville; 
High over all, in compact close array, 
Their classic wealth the Elzevirs display. 
In lower regions of the sacred space 
Range the dense volumes of a humbler race; 
There grim chirurgeons all their mysteries 

teach 
In spectral pictures, or in crabbed speech; 
Harvey and Haller, fresh from Nature's page, 



334 ASTR.^A: 

Shoulder the dreamers of an earlier age, 
Lully and Geber, and the learned crew 
That loved to talk of all they could not do. 
Why count the rest, — those names of later 

days 
That many love, and all agree to praise, — 
Or point the titles, where a glance may read 
The dangerous lines of party or of creed? 
Too well, perchance, the chosen list would 

show 
What few may care and none can claim to 

know. 
Each has his features, whose exterior seal 
A brush may copy, or a sunbeam steal; 
Go to his study, — on the nearest shelf 
Stands the mosaic portrait of himself. 

What though for months the tranquil dust 

descends, 
Whitening the heads of these mine ancient 

friends. 
While the damp offspring of the modern press 
Flaunts on my table with its pictured dress; 
Not less I love each dull familiar face, 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 335 

Not less should miss it from the appointed place; 
I snatch the book, along whose burning leaves 
His scarlet web our wild romancer weaves, 
Yet, while proud Hester's fiery pangs I share, 
My old Magnalia must be standing there/ 

See, while I speak my fireside joys return, 
The lamp rekindles and the ashes burn. 
The dream of summer fades before their ray, 
As in red firelight sunshine dies away. 

A twofold picture; ere the first was gone. 
The deepening outline of the next was drawn. 
And wavering fancy hardly dares to choose 
The first or last of her dissolving views. 

No Delphic sage is wanted to divine 
The shape of Truth beneath my gauzy line; 
Yet there are truths, — like schoolmates, once 

well known, 
But half remembered, not enough to own, — 
That lost from sight in life's bewildering train, 
May be, like strangers, introduced again, 
Dressed in new feathers, as from time to time 
May please our friends, the milliners of rhyme. 



336 ASTR^A: 

Trust not, it says, the momentary hue 
Whose false complexion paints the present 

view; 
Red, yellow, violet, stain the rainbow^s light, 
The prism dissolves, and all again is white. 

When o'er the street the morning peal is 
flung 
From yon tall belfry with the brazen tongue, 
Its wide vibrations, wafted by the gale. 
To each far listener tell a different tale. 

The sexton, stooping to the quivering floor 
Till the great caldron spills its brassy roar. 
Whirls the hot axle, counting, one by one. 
Each dull concussion, till his task is done. 
Toil's patient daughter, when the welcome 
note 
Clangs through the silence from the- steeple's 

throat. 
Streams, a white unit, to the checkered street, 
Demure, but guessing whom she soon shall 

meet; 
The bell, responsive to her secret flame. 
With every note repeats her lover's name. 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 337 

The lover, tenant of the neighboring lane, 
Sighing, and fearing lest he sigh in vain, 
Hears the stern actents, as they come and go, 
Their only burden one despairing No! 

Ocean's rough child, whom many a shore 
has known 
Ere homeward breezes swept him to his own, 
Starts at the echo as it circles round, 
A thousand memories kindling with the sound; 
The early favorite's unforgotten charms. 
Whose blue initials stain his tawny arms; 
His first farewell, the flapping canvas spread. 
The seaward streamers crackling o'er his head, 
His kind, pale mother, not ashamed to weep 
Her first-born's bridal with the haggard deep. 
While the brave father stood with tearless eye. 
Smiling and choking with his last good-by. 

'Tis but a wave, whose spreading circle 

beats, 
With the same impulse, every nerve it meets. 
Yet who shall count the varied shapes that 

ride 
On the round surge of that aerial tide! 



338 ASTR^A: 

O child of earth! If floating sounds like 

these 
Steal from thyself their power to wound or please, 
If here or there thy changing will inclines, 
As the bright zodiac shifts its rolling signs. 
Look at thy heart, and when its depths are 

known, 
Then try thy brother *s, judging by thine own. 
But keep thy wisdom to the narrower range. 
While its own standards are the sport of change. 
Nor ask mankind to tremble, and obey 
The passing breath that holds thy passion's 

sway. 

But how, alas! among our eager race. 
Shall smiling candor show her girlish face? 
What place is secret to the meddling crew. 
Whose trade is settling what we all shall do? 
What verdict sacred from the busy fools. 
That sell the jargon of their outlaw schools? 
What pulpit certain to be never vexed 
With libels sanctioned by a holy text? 
Where, O my country, is the spot that yields 
The freedom fought for on a hundred fields? 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 339 

Not one strong tyrant holds the servile 

chain, 
Where all may vote, and each may hope to 

reign; 
One sturdy cord a single limb may bind, 
And leave the captive only half confined, 
But the free spirit finds its legs and wings 
Tied with unnumbered Liliputian strings. 
Which, like the spider's undiscovered fold. 
In countless meshes round the prisoner rolled. 
With silken pressure that he scarce can feel. 
Clamp every fibre as in bands of steel! 

Hard is the task to point in civil phrase 
One's own dear people's foolish works or 

ways; 
Woe to the friend that marks a touchy fault. 
Himself obnoxious to the world's assault! 
Think what an earthquake is a nation's hiss. 
That takes its circuit through a land like this; 
Count with the census, would you be precise. 
From sea to sea, from oranges to ice; 
A thousand myriads are its virile lungs, 
A thousand myriads its contralto tongues! 



340 ASTR/EA: 

And oh, remember the indignant press; 
Honey is bitter to its fond caress, 
But the black venom that its hate lets fall 
Would shame to sweetness the hyena's gall! 

Briefly and gently let the task be tried 
To touch some frailties on their tender side; 
Not to dilate on each imagined wrong, 
And spoil at once our temper and our song, 
But once or twice a passing gleam to throw 
On some rank failings ripe enough to show. 
Patterns of others, — made of common stuff, — 
The world will furnish parallels enough, — 
Such as bewilder their contracted view. 
Who make one pupil do the work of two; 
Who following Nature, where her tracks divide, 
Drive all their passions on the narrower side, 
And pour the phials of their virtuous wrath 
On half mankind that take the wider path. 

Nature is liberal to her inmost soul. 
She loves alike the tropic and the pole, 
The storm's wild anthem, and the sunshine's 
calm. 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 341 

The arctic fungus, and the desert palm; 
Loves them alike, and wills that each maintain 
Its destined share of her divided reign; 
No creeping moss refuse her crystal gem, 
No soaring pine her cloudy diadem! 

Alas ! her children, borrowing but in part 
The flowing pulses of her generous heart. 
Shame their kind mother with eternal strife 
At all the crossings of their mingled life; 
Each age, each people, finds its ready shifts 
To quarrel stoutly o'er her choicest gifts. 

History can tell of early ages dim. 
When man's chief glory was in strength of 

limb; 
• Then the best patriot gave the hardest knocks, 
The height of virtue was to fell an ox; 
111 fared the babe of questionable mould. 
Whom its stern father happened to behold; 
In vain the mother with her ample vest 
Hid the poor nursling on her throbbing breast; 
No tears could save him from the kitten's fate, 
To live an insult to the warlike state. 



342 ASTR/EA: 

This weakness passed, and nations owned 
once more, 
Man was still human, measuring five feet four, 
The anti-cripples ceased to domineer. 
And owned Napleon worth a grenadier. 

In these mild times the ancient bully's sport 
Would lead its hero to a well-known court; 
Olympian athletes, though the pride of Greece, 
Must face the Justice if they broke the peace, 
And valor find some inconvenient checks. 
If strolling Theseus met Policeman X. 

Perhaps too far in these considerate days 
Has Patience carried her submissive ways; 
Wisdom has taught us to be calm and meek. 
To take one blow and turn the other cheek; 
It is not written what a man shall do, 
If the rude caitiff strike the other too! 

Land of our fathers, in thine hour of need 
God help thee, guarded by the passive creed! 
As the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and cowl, 
When through the forest rings the gray wolf's 
howl; 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 343 

As the deep galleon trusts her gilded prow 
When the black corsair slants athwart her bow; 
As the poor pheasant, with his peaceful mien, 
Tjrusts to his feathers, shining golden-green, 
When the dark plumage with the crimson beak 
Has rustled shadowy from its splintered peak; 
So trust thy friends, whose idle tongues would 

charm 
The lifted sabre from thy foeman's arm. 
Thy torches ready for the answering peal 
From bellowing fort and thunder-freighted keel! 

Yet when thy champion's stormy task is done. 
The frigate silenced and the fortress won. 
When toil-worn valor claims his laurel wreath. 
His reeking cutlass slumbering in its sheath, 
The fierce declaimer shall be heard once more. 
Whose twang was smothered by the conflict's 

roar; 
Heroes shall fall that strode unharmed away 
Through the red heaps of many a doubtful day, 
Hacked in his sermons, riddled in his prayers. 
The broadcloth slashing what the broadsword 

spares ! 



344 ASTR/EA: 

Untaught by trial, ignorance might suppose 
That all our fighting must be done with blows; 
Alas! not so; between the lips and brain 
A dread artillery masks its loaded train; 
The smooth portcullis of the smiling face 
Veils the grim battery with deceptive grace, 
But in the flashes of its opened fire, 
Truth, Honor, Justice, Peace, and Love expire. 

Yon whey-faced brother, who delights to wear 
A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair. 
Seems of the sort that in a crowded place 
One elbows freely into smallest space; 
A timid creature, lax of knee and hip. 
Whom small disturbance whitens round the lip; 
One of those harmless spectacled machines, 
Ignored by waiters when they call for greens, 
Whom schoolboys question if their walk tran- 
scends 
The last advices of maternal friends, 
Whom John, obedient to his master's sign, 
Conducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine, 
While Peter, glistening with luxurious scorn, 
Husks his white ivories like an ear of corn; 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 345 

Dark in the brow and bilious in the cheek, 
Whose yellowish linen flowers but once a week, 
Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare suits, 
And the laced high-lows which they call their 

boots. 
Well mayst thou shun that dingy front severe, 
But him, O stranger, him thou canst not /^^r / 

Be slow to judge, and slower to despise, 
Man of broad shoulders and heroic size! 
The tiger, writhing from the boa's rings. 
Drops at the fountain where the cobra stings. 
In that lean phantom, whose extended glove 
Points to the text of universal love, 
Behold the master that can tame thee down 
To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday frown; 
His velvet throat against thy corded wrist. 
His loosened tongue against thy doubled fist! 

The Moral Bully, though he never swears. 
Nor kicks intruders down his entry stairs. 
Though meekness plants his backward sloping 

hat. 
And non resistance ties his white cravat, 



346 ASTR^A: 

Though his black broadcloth glories to be seen 
In the same plight with Shylock's gabardine, 
Hugs the same passion to his narrow breast, 
That heaves the cuirass on the trooper's chest, 
Hears the same hell-hounds yelling in his rear. 
That chase from port the maddened buccaneer, 
Feels the same comfort while his acrid words 
Turn the sweet milk of kindness into curds, 
Or with grim logic prove, beyond debate, 
That all we love is worthiest of our hate. 
As the scarred rufifian of the pirates* deck. 
When his long swivel rakes the staggering 
wreck ! 

Heaven keep us all! Is every rascal clown, 
Whose arm is stronger, free to knock us down? 
Has every scarecrow, whose cachectic soul 
Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on parole, 
Who, though he carries but a doubtful trace 
Of angel visits on his hungry face, 
From lack of marrow or the coins to pay. 
Has dodged some vices in a shabby way. 
The right to stick us with his cut-throat terms, 
And bait his homilies with his brother worms? 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 347 

If generous fortune give me leave to choose 
My saucy neighbors barefoot or in shoes, 
I leave the hero blustering while he dares 
On platforms, furnished with posterior stairs, 
Till prudence drives him to his "earnest" legs 
With large bequest of disappointed eggs, 
And take the brawler whose unstudied dress 
Becomes him better, and protects him less; 
Give me the bullying of the scoundrel crew. 
If swaggering virtue wont insult me too! 
Come, let us breathe; a something not divine 
Has mingled, bitter, with the flowing line. 
Pause for a moment, while our soul forgets 
The noisy tribe in panta-loons or -lets; 
Nor pass, ungrateful, by the debt we owe 
To those who teach us half of all we know, 
Not in rude license, or unchristian scorn, 
But hoping, loving, pitying, while they warn! 

Sweep out the pieces! Round a careless 
room 
The feather duster follows up the broom; 
If the last target took a round of grape 
To knock its beauty something out of shape, 



348 ASTR^A: 

The next asks only, if the listener please, 
A schoolboy's blowpipe and a gill of peas. 

This creeping object, caught upon the brink 
Of an old teacup, filled with muddy ink. 
Lives on a leaf that buds from time to time 
In certain districts of a temperate clime. 
O'er this he toils in silent corners snug, 
And leaves a track behind him, like a slug; 
The leaves he stains a humbler tribe devours, 
Thrown off in monthly or in weekly showers; 
Himself kept savage on a starving fare. 
Of such exuviae as his friends can spare. 

Let the bug drop, and view him if we can 
In his true aspect as a quasi man. 
The little wretch, whose terebrating powers 
Would bore a Paixhan in a dozen hours, 
Is called a critic by the heavy friends 
That help to pay his minus dividends. 

The pseudo-critic-editorial race 
Owns no allegiance but the law of place; 
Each to his region sticks through thick and 
thin, 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 349 

Stiff as a beetle spiked upon a pin. 
Plant him in Boston, and his sheet he fills 
With all the slipslop of his threefold hills, 
Talks as if Nature kept her choicest smiles 
Within his radius of a dozen miles, 
And nations waited till his next Review 
Had made it plain what Providence must do. 
Would you believe him, water is not damp 
Except in buckets with the Hingham stamp. 
And Heaven should build the walls of Paradise 
Of Quincy granite lined with Wenham ice. 

But Hudson's banks, with more congenial 
skies 
Swell the small creature to alarming size; 
A gayer pattern wraps his flowery chest, 
A sham more brilliant sparkles on his breast. 
An eyeglass, hanging from a gilded chain, 
Taps the white leg that tips his rakish cane; 
Strings of new names, the glories of the age, 
Hang up to dry on his exterior page, 
Titanic pygmies, shining lights obscure. 
His favored sheets have managed to secure. 
Whose wide renown beyond their own abode 



350 ASTRy^A : 

Extends for miles along the Harlaem road; 
New radiance lights his patronizing smile, 
New airs distinguish his patrician style, 
New sounds are mingled with his fatal hiss, 
Oftenest, ^^ provincial'' and ^'metropolis,'' 

He cry '^ provincial," with imperious brow! 
The half-bred rogue, that groomed his mother's 

cow! 
Fed on coarse tubers and ^olian beans 
Till clownish manhood crept among his teens, 
When, after washing and unheard-of pains 
To lard with phrases his refractory brains, 
A third-rate college licked him to the shape, 
Not of the scholar, but the scholar's ape! 

God bless Manhattan! Let her fairly claim, 
With all the honors due her ancient name. 
Worth, wisdom, wealth, abounding and to spare. 
Rags, riots, rogues, at least her honest share; 
But not presume, because, by sad mischance, 
The mobs of Paris wring the neck of France, 
Fortune has ordered she shall turn the poise 
Of thirty Empires with her Bowery boys! 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 351 

The poorest hamlet on the mountain's side 
Looks on her glories with a sister's pride; 
When the first babes her fruitful ship-yards 

wean, 
Play round the breasts of Ocean's conquered 

queen, 
The shout of millions, borne on every breeze, 
Sweeps with Excelsior o'er the enfranchised 

seas! 

Yet not too rashly let her think to bind 
Beneath her circlet all the nation's mind; 
Our star-crowned mother, whose informing soul 
Clings to no fragment, but pervades the whole, 
Views with a smile the clerk of Maiden Lane, 
Who takes her ventral ganglion for her brain! 
No fables tell us of Minervas born 
From bags of cotton or from sacks of corn; 
The halls of Leyden Science used to cram, 
While dulness snored in purse-proud Amster- 
dam! 

But those old burghers had a foggy clime, 
And better luck may come the second time; 



352 ASTR^A: 

What though some churls of doubtful sense 

declare 
That poison lurks in her commercial air, 
Her buds of genius dying premature, 
From some malaria draining cannot cure; 
Nay, that so dangerous is her golden soil, 
Whate'er she borrows, she contrives to spoil; 
That drooping minstrels in a few brief 

years 
Lose their sweet voice, the gift of other 

spheres; 
That wafted singing from their native shore. 
They touch the Battery, and are heard no 

more ; — 
By those twinned waves that wear the varied 

gleams 
Beryl or sapphire mingles in their streams. 
Till the fair sisters o'er her yellow sands. 
Clasping their soft and snowy ruffled hands. 
Lay on her footstool with their silver keys 
Strength from the mountains, freedom from the 

seas, — 
Some future day may see her rise sublime 
Above her counters, — only give her time ! 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 353 

When our first Soldiers' swords of honor gild 
The stately mansions that her tradesmen build; 
When our first Statesmen take the Broadway 

track, 
Our first Historians following at their back; 
When our first Painters, dying, leave behind 
On her proud walls the shadows of their 

mind; 
When our first Poets flock from farthest scenes 
To take in hand her pictured Magazines; 
When our first Scholars are content to dwell 
Where their own printers teach them how to 

spell; 
When world-known Science crowds toward 

her gates, 
Then shall the children of our hundred States 
Hail her a true Metropolis of men, 
The nation's centre. Then, and not till then! 

The song is failing. Yonder changing tower 
Shakes in its cup the more than brimming 

hour; 
The full-length gallery which the fates deny, 
A colored Moral briefly must supply. 



354 ASTR/EA: 

No life worth naming ever comes to good 
If always nourished on the selfsame food; 
The creeping mite may live so if he please, 
And feed on Stilton till he turns to cheese, 
But cool Magendie proves beyond a doubt, 
If mammals try it, that their eyes drop out. 

No reasoning natures find it safe to feed 
For their sole diet on a single creed; 
It chills their hearts, alas ! it fills their lungs, 
And spoils their eyeballs while it spares their 
tongues. 

When the first larvae on the elm are seen. 
The crawling wretches, like its leaves, are 

green; 
Ere chill October shakes the latest down, 
They, like the foliage, change their tint to 

brown; 
On the blue flower a bluer flower you spy, 
You stretch to pluck it — 'tis a butterfly; 
The flattened tree-toads so resemble bark. 
They're hard to find as Ethiops in the dark; 
The woodcock, stiffening to fictitious mud, 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS, 355 

Cheats the young sportsman thirsting for his 

blood. 
So by long living on a single lie, 
Nay, on one truth, will creatures get its dye; 
Red, yellow, green, they take their subject's 

hue, — 
Except when squabbling turns them black and 

blue ! 

The song is passing. Let its meaning rise 
To loftier notes before its echo dies. 
Nor leave, ungracious, in its parting train 
A trivial flourish or discordant strain. 

These lines may teach, rough-spoken though 
they be. 
Thy gentle creed, divinest Charity! 
Truth is at heart not always as she seems. 
Judged by our sleeping or our waking dreams. 

We trust and doubt, we question and believe, 
From life's dark threads a trembling faith to 

weave. 
Frail as the web that misty night has spun, 



356 ASTR/EA: 

Whose dew-gemmed awnings glitter in the sun. 
Though Sovereign Wisdom, at His creatures' call, 
Has taught us much, He has not taught us all; 
When Sinai's summit was Jehovah's throne, 
The chosen Prophet knew His voice alone; 
When Pilate's hall that awful question heard. 
The Heavenly Captive answered not a word. 

Eternal Truth! Beyond our hopes and fears 
Sweep the vast orbits of thy myriad spheres! 
From age to age while History carves sublime 
On her waste rock the flaming curves of time, 
How the wild swayings of our planet show 
That worlds unseen surround the world we 
know! 

The song is hushed. Another moment parts 
This breathing zone, this belt of living hearts; 
Ah, think not thus the parting moment ends 
The soul's embrace of new-discovered friends. 

Sleep on my heart, thou long-expected hour, 
Time's new-born daughter, with thine infant 
dower, 



/ 



THE BALANCE OF ILLUSIONS. 357 

One sad, sweet look from those expiring 

charms 
The clasping centuries strangle in their arms, 
Dreams of old halls, and shadowy arches green, 
And kindly faces loved as soon as seen! 

Sleep, till the fires of manhood fade away. 
The sprinkled locks have saddened into gray. 
And age, oblivious, blends thy memories old 
With hoary legends that his sire has told! 



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